by David Thurlo
“I’ve seen these placed over septic tank openings,” the sergeant said. “This one blends perfectly with the other boulders around here. I think it was painted to match. And it’s well placed so runoff won’t flood down into the tunnel. Here are the tracks. We’ve made sure not to mix them with our own.”
Charlie nodded. “The next street is atop that ridge, isn’t it?” He pointed.
“Yes sir. About a hundred fifty yards, give or take. Two officers are already headed in the general direction of the tracks, but they’re moving slow, checking every potential hiding place,” the sergeant replied. “They’re circling uphill, I think.”
“I’ll follow the tracks directly. Detective DuPree sent for a K-9 unit, but I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get them here.”
“Want some backup?”
Charlie shook his head. “I’ll probably meet up with the two officers before long. But you might want to look around for other fake boulders.”
“To cover another hidey-hole? Hadn’t thought of that,” the sergeant admitted. “This Myers guy is pretty smart. He could be twenty feet from us right now, waiting for us to leave, then popping back up.”
“Just a thought,” Charlie said, finding the athletic-shoe pattern he’d already decided must belong to Myers, then looking for the next footprints. “Be careful, this guy is dangerous.”
Despite the rough, rocky ground, consisting of a blend of coarse granite sand, rocks, plant debris, and sediment, Charlie had no trouble following Myers’s footprints. Before long, he reached a path taken by small animals—probably rabbits and prairie dogs or squirrels—and crossed a gently sloped canyon, rising toward a rounded ridge that, even from a distance, Charlie could tell contained one of the narrow streets. There were several large homes visible in the almost rural neighborhood, but the tracks led away from all of them.
As he approached the crest of the ridge with the road, still paralleling Myers’s tracks, he stopped and looked back. The two officers, in their dark blue APD uniforms, were higher up the canyon, apparently hoping to spot Myers from their vantage point. One of them had binoculars and, after a few seconds, waved in recognition. Charlie nodded, then topped the slope, which was steepest at the upper edge.
He spotted the athletic-shoe pattern, revealing that Myers had stepped up onto the dark blue-black asphalt, leaving evidence from the lighter, dusty sand on his shoes. He knew that very soon the dusty outline would fade and he’d lose the trail.
But the tracks led out onto the asphalt only about fifteen feet, made a ninety-degree turn, proceeded, getting fainter, another six feet, then stopped, as if Myers had suddenly been lifted straight up. Doubting it was divine rapture that had taken him skyward, Charlie got down on the hot asphalt and lay nearly flat, checking in front of the shoe prints. Sure enough, there was the distinct impression of tire tracks, pressed slightly into the heat-softened tar-gravel mix.
Myers had climbed into a vehicle here, then driven away. Either he’d happened to get a ride at exactly the right time—unlikely—or he’d had an escape vehicle parked here uphill from his home, just in case. If he was lucky, not just smart, Myers might have been able to drive out of the neighborhood before the roadblocks were in place. The bastard could be miles away by now.
Charlie made a quick call to Nancy, passing along the theory that Myers had entered a vehicle, type and color unknown, and driven away. She reported, in return, that the blue van used in the kidnapping was in the garage at the Myers home, along with an older-model silver Volkswagen Passat. But she concluded with good news. Gordon had just dropped off Bill Woods and would probably be joining Charlie soon.
Charlie crouched down again, this time taking a close-up photo. He checked to make sure the tread pattern was clear, then stood and looked up and down the street. He was standing at a sharp curve in the road, which led toward a boxy two-story house slightly uphill and straight ahead, maybe two hundred yards away, and a Frank Lloyd Wright-ish structure a little lower than his current location, across the street and closer, to his left. A small sign almost overhead told him this was a different street than the one Myers’s house was on, but it looked like they intersected downhill.
Deciding to stick close to the road rather than hike cross-country again, he chose to go left. It was downhill, he was hot and tired, and the sun was low in the sky.
Gordon’s pickup came up the street only a few minutes later, just as Charlie reached the home that, to his untrained eye, reminded him of those Prairie-Style Revival houses he’d read about in some dentist’s waiting room. The broad, gentle roofs, big low chimneys, and long horizontal lines were all there, along with the natural wood colors. Even the mailbox was in the same style and shades. He’d seen very few houses like this, even in Albuquerque, and would have enjoyed looking around inside.
Gordon pulled up beside him. “Nice house, Charlie. Thinking of buying it?”
“Yeah. FOB Pawn is making money like there’s no tomorrow.” He walked over to look at the mailbox.
“Well, at least you’ve saved Margaret’s tomorrow. Too bad about Sam’s. You done searching the neighborhood?” Gordon asked.
“Just getting started.” Charlie looked down at the buff-colored concrete driveway that led up to the low wooden gate and, beyond, a three-car garage. “How about that?” he commented.
“How about what?” Gordon looked down at the ground.
“The tire tread in the sand dusting this driveway matches the one from the vehicle Myers climbed into once he reached the road.” He brought out his camera, looked at the photo he’d taken earlier, then scrunched down low to capture this tire print.
“And where was this car or truck parked?”
Charlie pointed. “The outside of the curve over there.”
“That’s, like, a hundred yards. Why park there, then escape by driving here, a short walk away, then drive into the garage?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it? It must be just the same make of tire. Lots of Mercedes up here.” Charlie handed Gordon the phone, and his pal swiped back and forth between images.
“They look the same. More like an SUV, though. Too wide for a sedan.”
“You think the officers searching the ’hood checked out this place already?”
“Should have. I see two sets of fresh shoe prints, not his. But I’m going to give it a second look anyway.”
“Let me pull over and I’ll go with you. I need to stretch my legs,” Gordon said.
A minute later they approached the big gate, then saw another, nearly concealed much smaller gate, clearly for foot traffic.
Charlie discovered a call button set into a wood post and pressed it. They waited a minute; then he pressed it again. “Looks like nobody’s home.”
“Or they’re being held hostage,” Gordon said.
“Not again. Let’s at least go check to make sure there hasn’t been a break-in.”
Gordon pointed to a camera mounted beneath one of the long, low eaves. “Smile, we’re on camera.”
“I’ll risk it.” He reached over the gate and flipped the latch. The gate opened, and they stepped inside the yard, which was tastefully xeriscaped with desert plants. Placed underneath the eaves on a raised wooden deck was a long stone-topped counter, the kind used for outdoor cookouts.
“No grill or smoker?” Gordon commented softly as they walked past a small bistro table and two iron stools. “Not even a bar. How primitive.”
Charlie looked down at the sidewalk. “Oh crap, I recognize that new set of shoe prints.” He reached for his pistol.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Hands away from the weapon!” came a man’s voice from his left.
Charlie and Gordon turned, finding an Anglo man wearing a tan shirt and pants and a cap—some kind of tribal police uniform. It wasn’t for the Navajo Tribe; Charlie knew their insignia. He was aiming an autoloading shotgun at them.
They froze.
“Where’s your Yankee cap?” Charlie asked.
“Shut up, Sweeney. Hands on your heads, both of you. Slowly, so I won’t have to spray your guts all over the patio.”
Charlie nodded, and he and Gordon complied.
“Now, shorty, you first. Reach over with your left hand, take out your handgun with index finger and thumb, and then place it on the counter.”
“You talking to me?” Gordon asked.
“Do it.”
Gordon did as he was told.
“Now you, Charlie. And don’t try that flatten-and-roll crap. I’m not driving a car this time.”
Charlie did as he asked. So Myers was the guy who tried to kill him outside the bar. At least this time he hadn’t already shot him and Gordon. That meant they still had a chance.
A few minutes later, their cell phones, pocketknives, and keys were on the counter, and Myers was marching them into the big garage through a side entrance. Inside was an SUV, plus a Sandia Pueblo police car—or at least a very good copy. It was a white Chevy Impala with SANDIA emblazoned on it in big red letters. Blue and red accents framed the red police label, and a blue and gold Sandia emblem the shape of a baseball diamond was positioned on the back side behind the rear tire. There were no emergency lights on top, just a black spotlight on the driver’s side by the mirror.
“Good disguise if you want to get out of the city in a hurry,” Charlie guessed.
“Know your enemy, right?” Myers replied cheerfully. “Sweeney, assume the position, arms up and out, feet spread, just like on TV,” he ordered, pointing the gun at Charlie. “Or you’ll have to drag your big pal’s body.”
Gordon cursed under his breath, then leaned against the vehicle as ordered.
Myers brought out a set of handcuffs from his back pocket. “These were supposed to be for the wife’s legs. Don’t you hate women with fat ankles?”
Charlie eyed the man, wondering if he could grab the barrel. He took a step toward Myers, but the guy dropped the cuffs onto the garage floor and stepped back, both hands on the shotgun again. “Not a good idea, Charlie. Pick them up, then put them to use on your friend, his hands behind his back. If you want to stay alive.”
“Sorry, bro,” Charlie replied, putting the cuffs on Gordon, keeping them as loose as possible.
As he started to turn, Charlie saw movement, but it was too late. Myers whacked him on the back of the head with the gun butt, and as he fell to the floor, Charlie blacked out.
* * *
“Hey, naptime’s over,” Gordon whispered, poking him in the back. Charlie opened his eyes, his head aching. It was hot, dark, and cramped, and he could smell car exhaust.
“We’re in the damned trunk, aren’t we?” he muttered weakly. His arms were numb, asleep, and behind his back. “Bastard cold-cocked me, then tied me up. Feels like zip ties.”
“Yeah, they’re heavy-duty, too. At least he busted a gut trying to put you in the trunk. If he had any brains, he would have had me put the cuffs on you, then made you climb in while still conscious.”
“If he had any brains, he wouldn’t have messed with us.”
“Yeah, Charlie. Look at the position we’ve got him in now.”
Charlie started to laugh. “Ow, my head hurts. No more jokes. We’re clearly on the move. Any idea where we’re headed?”
“We went downhill for a while, then rode straight for several minutes, then climbed up and really accelerated into traffic. I think we went up a ramp and are now on the interstate. From the inertia of the turn, I’m guessing we’re headed to the right rather than the left, which means to the north.”
“In the direction of Sandia Pueblo. That puts us exactly where you might expect to find a Sandia Pueblo police car. This guy is smart. He’s established an alternate hiding place—complete with patio—then an escape strategy out of the city, just in case,” Charlie pointed out. “The car and uniform would get him through any roadblock not manned by a Sandia Pueblo cop.”
“Fitting for a guy with mob connections, having a Plan B. He must have known Frank Geiger back in one of the other News, York or Jersey,” Gordon suggested. “Maybe Myers was his mob contact.”
“Yeah. Hopefully we’ll get all the answers, but right now we’ve got to get out of this alive,” Charlie reminded him, “and step one is getting our hands free.”
“You can’t work on my cuffs without some kind of wire or tool,” Gordon replied, “but maybe we can find a sharp edge on the trunk lid or interior somewhere and I can cut through the plastic zip tie around your wrists. My belt buckle has got sharp edges—well, kinda sharp—if we can’t find anything better. The problem is finding a rough edge that you can place behind your back without slicing your wrists,” Gordon said.
“Then let’s work fast. We don’t know how much time we have,” Charlie whispered.
After about five minutes of feeling around in the dark, Charlie finally gave up. “Let’s try that belt buckle. Spoon me, Gordon.”
“Okay, but if you start to grope me I’m going to scream.” Gordon chuckled.
“I’ll be gentle.”
“We never, ever, tell anyone about this,” Gordon replied. Just then, the car slowed, turned, and rolled to a stop. “Crap. Out of time. Do we go for it now?” Gordon asked.
“Yeah. Otherwise, we may have just arrived at our burial site,” Charlie answered, twisting around, trying to maneuver so his feet were toward the trunk opening. “When he starts to open the trunk, we kick the top—when I say now. Maybe we can knock him out, or at least down onto the ground.”
“Then what, jump out, tackling, kicking, and head-butting?” Gordon whispered.
“And stomping. Don’t forget stomping.”
“Ready?” Gordon asked.
“Ready,” Charlie replied, his heart beating through his chest.
They waited, feeling the weight shift as Myers got out of the car. There was a short pause, and then the car door closed. Footsteps sounded, but they grew fainter, then faded away.
“He’s going somewhere,” Gordon whispered. “Now’s our chance to try and kick this lid open.”
“Wait just a few more seconds. Just listen. I don’t hear traffic or other noises,” Charlie said.
He heard a different car door open, then close again. An engine revved up; then a vehicle started moving, tires crunching on gravel. As Charlie listened, the sound faded away to nothing.
“He met someone, and they’ve driven off,” Charlie decided.
“It should be dark outside by now, or nearly so. Let’s kick ourselves out of this tin can,” Gordon replied. “But be ready to run.”
“At the count of three. One, two, three!” Charlie yelled. He and Gordon kicked the trunk lid as hard as they could.
Something snapped, and the trunk flew open. Outside it was twilight—the sun had set.
Gordon, who was closest to the back of the car, tried to sit up, sticking his legs over the rear of the car. He groaned, then rolled over onto the ground.
Charlie tried to sit up, too, but his legs ached like hell. He stayed where he was for a moment and looked around. Turning his head, he saw the Sandia Mountains to the southeast and realized they were just north of the town of Bernalillo, on some side road. I-25 was miles to the east, with vehicle headlights revealing its location just below the foothills. There was a small housing development about a quarter mile away, but otherwise, they were in a rural setting, mostly brush and cottonwoods, part of the bosque.
He climbed clumsily out of the trunk, his hands behind his back, his arms aching, and his legs so stiff he could hardly stand. “I feel like crap, but, hey, we’re alive.”
“And obviously kicking. Wonder who he met up with? Frank and Ray Geiger?”
“That would be my guess,” Charlie replied. “Let’s see if we can get our hands free. Anyone who spots us now will think we’re escaped prisoners, and wonder why we’re beside this police car. With so many people packing weapons these day
s…”
“A sharp rock first, maybe, for that zip tie?” Gordon suggested, looking around.
“Or a piece of glass.” Charlie turned and looked at the rear taillight.
“Naw, that’s plastic. But this is New Mexico, and we’re beside a road.”
“Which means there’s got to be a broken beer bottle close by. Glass is much better,” Charlie replied. “Let’s be careful trying to pick it up, though, and try not to slit my wrist too much.”
With darkness falling, the search took more time than they thought it would, and they had to settle for an aluminum Coke can. It was quickly stomped flat, then worked back and forth until it split into two pieces. The sharp aluminum edge at the tear was like a knife, and in moments Charlie was free.
A few minutes and a piece of rusty wire from a downed fence later, Charlie was able to free his pal from first one, then the second handcuff. The road they stood beside was more rural than urban, and during the time he was freeing Gordon only one vehicle, a shiny blue pickup, had flown past. The driver was a young woman with a child, and she wasn’t eager to even slow down, much less stop, despite their waving. Maybe it was the handcuffs.
As they tried to decide which house was the closest, they saw a police car approaching and knew they’d be able to get help in a hurry now. As it turned out, the woman in the pickup had called the police to report two strangers, one handcuffed, beside a police car. After an unpleasant few minutes, their story was confirmed, and more officers were on the way.
The next vehicle to arrive looked familiar. As it pulled up, Charlie saw that it was Nancy driving her APD unit. Beside her sat Detective DuPree. “Get in, you two,” DuPree yelled from the passenger side. “We’ve got a good lead on Myers’s possible destination.”
Charlie climbed into the backseat of the four-door sedan behind DuPree, and Gordon circled around and got in behind Nancy. “Where we headed?” Charlie asked while fastening his seat belt.