The Thirteenth Skull

by Bonnie Ramthun

  He hadn’t just kissed her, he’d lunged at her, pawed her, grabbed her breast in a clumsy grip that left her with a bruise the shape of his thumb across the top swelling of her breast. He’d forced her against the car and had his tongue in her mouth before she could do more than wheeze in surprise. What astonished her most, as she struggled, was the laughter and whoops from prom goers who thought she had asked to be kissed, or liked being kissed, while her backbone ground against the door handle and his fingers bruised her skin. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they see?

  She’d done more than shove him into the lake that night. She’d kneed him solidly in the crotch, pushed him away, and gave him a solid punch like her father had taught her, an upper cut that crossed his eyes and sent him stumbling backwards into the shallow water of the lake.

  There were more catcalls, this time of derision, aimed at a soaking wet Richard who stumbled out of the lake, fell to his knees, and vomited on the shore. Eileen had left the lake immediately, she graduated the following month and was gone into the Air Force before summer, but she’d never forgotten the awful feel of his hands bruising her. She’d never spoken to him again. She was sure he’d never forgotten his public humiliation at her hands, either.

  The night grew colder as they walked the short distance to the jump camp. She smelled the tang of bug spray as they walked over the last mild rise. Below them lay the camp. A jumble of tents and tables glimmered white in the darkness. There were no lights.

  “They must be asleep,” Paul whispered. “I hope.”

  “Look at Zilla, Dad,” Eileen whispered. Zilla stood, tail wagging slowly, unconcerned.

  “Let’s not bother them,” Paul whispered. “Looks like everything is okay. I’ll leave Zilla on guard.”

  Paul whispered to Zilla and she sat, wagging her tail. They turned and started the short walk back to the main house. Eileen linked her arm through her Dad’s and snuggled her hand into his pocket. His warm hand, roughened from years of work, closed around hers.

  “We’re glad you’re here, punkin,” Paul said.

  “Don’t call me punkin,” Eileen giggled. “I’ll lose all my authority as a detective.”

  “Okay, punkin,” Paul said, and kissed her cheek. “I like your friend, too. She does a good I’m-just-a-mom routine, doesn’t she?”

  “A very good routine,” Eileen said. “I think we might just be good enough to catch us a murderer.”

  “That’s my girl,” Paul said. They walked in comfortable silence the last twenty yards to the main house. The house was dark and silent. Everyone was in bed, exhausted from the busy day. Eileen, energized, felt like she could go all night. When she was trying on wedding dresses with Lucy just three days ago she could barely keep her eyes open she was so tired and bored, and now a murdered man had her all charged and ready to go. She was weird, but Joe knew about her. He loved her anyway. Thank God.

  Eileen kissed her father goodnight and walked to her room, missing Joe suddenly and ferociously. She needed him desperately right now, not to help her but just because he was good and clean and…Joe. She unstrapped her guns and took off her clothes. She put on pajamas and brushed her teeth and then, instead of going to bed, sat in her old rocker by the window. Her room had been turned into a guest room for hunters long ago but her old rocker remained. She liked it better now than when she had cluttered it up as a teenager. Her mother had furnished it with clean, spare furniture and simple lamps.

  Eileen turned off the light. She looked out the window into the night sky. She could see her favorite constellation, Orion, the warrior with his sword and belt of stars. If Joe were awake and looking up, he would see the same stars. She got into bed and lay still, composed for sleep, looking at the ceiling, thinking that she would not sleep tonight. Then she closed her eyes and she was gone.

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “I guess this takes our friendship to a new level,” ’Berto Espinoza said.

  “I’m sorry about this, man,” Joe Tanner said. The shot the nurse had given him was beginning to wear off and his head was starting to hurt.

  “Let me get us some coffee, okay? Then you can start over again. I’m half asleep and I’m thinking you told me you saw Sully tonight.”

  “I did,” Joe said, touching his head. “Hey, you wouldn’t have any painkillers, would you? Good stuff, like when you had that knee surgery last year?”

  “Didn’t they give you a prescription at the hospital?” ’Berto asked. He got up and walked to the kitchen. ’Berto’s apartment was pin-neat, which meant the hired maid had done his place that week. Roberto Espinoza was the worst computer-geek slob Joe had ever met. Chairs were for hanging boxer shorts and sweaty socks over, beds were never made, and trade magazines and paperback books piled up everywhere. If he didn’t use a hired maid ’Berto’s apartment would be uninhabitable.

  “What?” Joe asked, blinking. The two ’Berto’s in the kitchen merged into one, a disapproving look on his face.

  “Didn’t they give you a prescription?”

  “I left AMA,” Joe said. “Against Medical Advice. I’d be dead right now if I’d stayed.”

  “Sully told you that,” ’Berto said. “Our friend Sully. The dead one.”

  “Sully told me. Now believe me, or kick me the hell out of here,” Joe said angrily. What did that doctor do, put staples into his brain? His forehead wound was burning. The doctor had stitched him up while they were waiting for the CAT scan machine. Joe sleepily let the strange bell shape of the CAT surround him and measure him. The strange printout that the doctor showed him was incomprehensible, a bizarre swirl of colors and blots that didn’t look anything like a brain. The picture was his brain, however, and it showed that there was no internal bleeding inside his skull. He was going to be okay.

  Ten minutes after the nurse settled him in his hospital bed, Joe was sliding quietly out the basement service door, dressed again in his muddy, bloody clothes. Two harrowing hours later, ghosts of the fat man and his plank-like friend haunting every shadow, Joe had finally knocked on ’Berto’s door.

  Now ’Berto, in sweatpants and a ripped and ancient T-shirt, raised his eyebrows and shrugged elaborately. Then he walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. He emerged with a bottle of pills in his hand.

  “Here you go, hermano,” he said. “Take one, not two. I weigh more than you do. And better not go to work until they’re out of your system. You don’t want to get caught in a random drug test.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be going to work for a while,” Joe said. “And thanks.” He swallowed the pill and lay back against the couch as ’Berto made busy sounds in the kitchen. Beans were ground, water was poured, the heavenly smell of coffee floated to his nose. The pill took the biting snarl of the stitches and made them go away. Finally the ache in his head subsided to a low, faraway drumbeat. He opened his eyes. Steaming in front of him was a cup of coffee, hot and black. ’Berto sat on the other couch, sipping from his mug.

  “I hope I don’t get you killed,” Joe said muzzily.

  “You won’t,” ’Berto said, with a matter-of-factness that in anyone but ’Berto would be arrogance. He’d been raised in the worst part of East Los Angeles and had avoided bullets, drugs and gangs to graduate at the top of his class at UCLA. To ’Berto, guns and drive-by shootings were part of the landscape, nothing more. “Want to tell me the whole story?”

  “I do, and I will,” Joe said. “And after I get done I hope you’re going to let me borrow your car and some money.”

  ’Berto’s eyebrows climbed and he took a sip of coffee. “Okay,” he said, as casually as though Joe asked to borrow a piece of gum and a glass of water. “Some clothes, too. Whatever you need.”

  Joe leaned over his coffee cup, trying to control his face. The drug was making him loopy. He felt absurdly like weeping, because for the first time since he’d woken on a pink-edged cloud with his dead girlfriend lounging in front of him, he felt like he just might be able to sta
y alive.

  Memorial Hospital, Colorado Springs

  “He didn’t say why he was leaving?” Officer Shelly Hetrick was astonished. And concerned.

  “He didn’t just walk out. He disappeared out of here, Officer,” the doctor said, rubbing his forehead. He was a tall, fat man, taller than Shelly Hetrick, and he looked tired. “The nurse didn’t see him go. I didn’t seem him go. Nobody did.”

  They were standing in front of Memorial Hospital. The doctor had been standing outside the entrance smoking a cigarette when Hetrick arrived. He said he was the attending doctor and he told her that Joe had left AMA, against medical advice. The night was deepening towards morning and the July air felt cold. The doctor hunched over his cigarette, looking as worried as Hetrick felt.

  “But that’s crazy,” Hetrick said. “He had a concussion. A bad one, by the look of him. Didn’t he?”

  “A concussion, but no fracture or internal bleeding. I’d say he wouldn’t be able to drive a car or walk more than a few blocks without falling down. Maybe you can check the area. We’ve called his house but there’s no answer. Perhaps you could check? Does he have a girlfriend, or family in town?”

  “Sure, Eileen,” Hetrick said absently. “He said someone was after him. Maybe he thought they’d come after him in the hospital. That could be why he left against medical advice.”

  “He’s a sick man, Officer,” the doctor said, stubbing out his cigarette. He then did an odd and, to Hetrick, touching thing. He leaned over and picked up his flattened stub of a cigarette and put it in his jacket pocket. He was a smoker, but he was no litterer, this doctor. “His girlfriend is Eileen, is that right? Can I call over there? Eileen – what?”

  “Eileen Reed,” Hetrick said. “Don’t worry, I’ll check over there. If he comes back in, could you call the police department? He paid his bill, right? He’s not in trouble here?”

  “He’s not in trouble, he had his insurance card and he made his co-payment. I’m just worried about him.”

  “Me, too, Doctor,” Hetrick said. “What was your name, again?”

  “Dubois,” the doctor said, shaking her hand with a friendly smile on his big face. “Doctor Dubois.”

  Westside Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “That’s the answer,” Rene Dubois said in satisfaction. The stethoscope and the white medical coat were stored in the trunk, just in case he needed to be a doctor again. “That’s why he lived.”

  “Why?” Ken said. He opened the wrapping of his fourth taco, neatly positioned it on his lap, and took a swig of pop. Rene looked at him and shook his head. Ken was a good man, but he didn’t make connections.

  They were sitting in Rene’s Lexus, parked on the street in front of Eileen Reed’s apartment building. The Lexus was shiny clean and unmarked. The car in which they’d run Joe Tanner off the road was back in the driveway where they’d originally stolen it. The headlights were broken and the passenger side was crushed along the entire length of the car, marked with blue paint from Joe’s Honda. The owner was going to be one surprised commuter when he got up tomorrow.

  Detective Eileen Reed, Rene thought. Detective Reed. Her face, oval and intelligent and lovely, looked directly at him from his laptop screen.

  “Joe Tanner is going to marry Eileen Reed,” Rene said. “Eileen Reed, who killed a child killer named Teddy Shaw. Eileen Reed, who caught the so-called ‘UFO murderer’ down in the Great Sand Dunes. Homicide detectives don’t get big press, but that one was a huge case. What else? Oh, look at this. Eileen Reed, who caught the killer at that interesting weather station, Schriever Air Force Base. The weather station that really isn’t a weather station at all, but a missile defense development facility.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember that guy. The Schriever killer took out Art Bailey, too. We had Bailey targeted, remember?” Ken said, wiping taco sauce off his lower lip with a paper napkin. “You were happy as a clam that guy got took out.”

  “Taken out,” Rene corrected. “Yes, I was. This article doesn’t mention Joe Tanner. He was working out there during the murders, and that’s how he met Eileen Reed. There’s no other way they could have met. Tanner isn’t the kind of guy to pick up girls in bars, and Detective Reed doesn’t look like the kind of woman who hangs out in them.”

  “I’ll say,” Ken said, leaning over to look at the woman’s picture. “So what does she have to do with Tanner getting away tonight?”

  Rene sighed and leaned back in the leather seat. It creaked luxuriously underneath him. He relished the touch and the feel of the leather. He enjoyed the silky smooth power of the laptop that hummed under his fingers. Power and luxury, these were things he appreciated.

  “Simple,” he said. “Tanner fought back. He smashed his car into ours, remember?”

  “I remember,” Ken said. He folded up the empty taco papers, tucked them neatly back into the fast food bag, belched, and took a long sip of his soda. “That was strange. He didn’t act like the others did. He smashed into us like he knew we were coming. Like he knew what we were going to do.”

  “He didn’t know we were coming,” Rene said. “He acted like a cop. Like a soldier. Full reaction, without hesitation. The reason our jobs are so easy is that most people haven’t gone through the moral argument of kill-or-be-killed. They try to comprehend that we’re going to kill them, and that it’s okay to fight back, and by the time they figure out they should fight back they’re already dead.”

  “Tanner’s figured that out.”

  “Exactly. He’s already there. That’s why we didn’t force him off the road into the ravine, but just into that shallow ditch. That’s why he was gone by the time we turned around and checked the area. His girlfriend is a cop. He’s probably got a concealed-carry permit and she makes him carry. I imagine they practice on the range once a month or more. He’s not going to be easy.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Ken said with a smile.

  “We don’t get paid to have fun,” Rene said. “We get paid to do a job. I’d rather break his neck like a chicken, like that girl we did a couple years ago. The easier the better.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ken said. He took a long sip of his pop and the straw made a gurgling sound as he drained the cup. “Hmm. Why was she targeted, anyway?”

  “She was the best programmer in missile defense, at the time,” Rene said. “Now Joe Tanner is.” He typed on the laptop, searching for any other information about Eileen Reed.

  “So why are we waiting? Can’t we just go in and pop them and go home?” Ken said. He was tired, Rene knew. Rene was tired, too. Setting up the trap for Joe Tanner had taken several days. Forcing Tanner’s car into the ditch had taken harrowing minutes and the search of the auto junkyard and their escape before the police arrived had been nerve wracking. Now it was coming up on four in the morning and Joe Tanner was still alive. They weren’t used to failure, either of them.

  “They aren’t there,” Rene said shortly. “And we don’t want to make our hits obvious, remember?”

  “Oh,” Ken said. “How do you know they aren’t there?”

  “No lights. They’d be up, if he were there. She’s a cop and a good one, by the look of it. She wouldn’t sleep until she’d seen the accident scene. She’s not up, ergo she isn’t there.”

  “So we have to find them.”

  “Yes. I hesitate to ask around the police department. That’s more risk than I’m willing to take. Impersonating a doctor was close enough for me. And I don’t want to enter her apartment before I find out more about her.”

  “So we’ll go in tomorrow?” Ken asked.

  “Tomorrow night, perhaps,” Rene said. “We’re going to have to kill her to get to Tanner, I believe. Taking her is going to be a trophy hunt, like hunting lions in Africa. Dangerous, but very satisfying. We’ll have to be well prepared.”

  “Okay, boss,” Ken sighed. “I could use some sleep first.”

  “We’ll both get some sleep. Then we’ll start, my friend. We’ve a lot of work to do.”<
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  Rene folded away the laptop. He put the Lexus in drive and pulled out of his parking place.

  Chapter Five

  Buffalo Jump, The Reed Ranch, Wyoming

  “That’s a long way to fall,” Lucy said, looking up at the top of the bluff. Eileen stood next to her, imagining tons of buffalo falling helplessly over the cliff, coming down at them like a brown and black avalanche. The image was so real it made her stomach contract and her hands go cold. The morning sun was behind them, lighting up the bluff in gold and green. The grassy meadow where they stood was once a flood plain from the Belle Fourche River, a flood that cut away at the plains until it made a series of bluffs like crumbling steps down to the river. The Reed Ranch stood another quarter-mile east, in the last and oldest of the gigantic sheltering steps.

  Eileen looked for the stump of the cottonwood tree that once stood in the meadow where the archeologist’s camp was erected. The stump was still there, an enormous circle of crumbling old wood. Some pieces had been hacked out of the stump for firewood and Eileen felt an unexpected and unjustified anger. What, the University archeologists were supposed to leave the stump alone because little Eileen Reed once played with her Barbie dolls there? The rest of the camp was neat and tidy, with a main work tent whose open sides revealed a series of tables. The tables were loaded with trays and boxes and tools.

  “There they are,” Lucy murmured. Hank was on her hip and Zilla trotted behind them. Hank had gotten tired after a few minutes of walking but Lucy wasn’t going to let him play by himself anymore. From now on, Hank and Zilla were part of the team.

  Beryl Penrose and Jorie Rothman rose out of the earth beyond the worktable, each in sturdy stained coveralls, with cameras around their necks and small wicker baskets under their arms. They appeared to be arguing. Beryl was a round woman with a round face and round hands, like a person made up of circles. Her eyes were bright and dark and her short black hair had an almost purple cast under the light. She was in her forties, perhaps even her early fifties, but she had several gold earrings in each ear and one small ring in her eyebrow. She was an expert anthropologist, Tracy had told Eileen and Lucy, the part of Dr. McBride’s team that would examine any cultural artifacts that the team found at the buffalo jump.