The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  + + +

  Ben watched the white van lurch to the top of the ramp, pause, then roar out of the station’s parking lot turning west toward Lomas. He couldn’t see the driver, but guessed that it was Bob Crenshaw. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so certain anymore, about anything. He was taking a chance. What if he was just wasting time? But what else was there? Bob Crenshaw had lied. He must have something to hide. Maybe that was good enough.

  He eased into traffic and followed a couple blocks behind. Whoever was driving was intent on getting someplace. Not speeding but pushing the limit. The van got onto I-25 at Lomas and headed north. Ben almost lost the van on the freeway but caught the flash of white as it turned onto Paseo Del Norte. What a laugh if Bob was just going home. They climbed past Louisiana, past Wyoming, past Eubank and Tramway. Ben thought he might be right when Bob, at last, turned down a residential street. But then he watched as the van just cruised around.

  Ben cut his lights and followed the white van through the residential area, giving the driver a head start when he headed out to the mesa. When the taillights disappeared, he quickly parked, locked the truck and started out on foot using the brightly lighted radio tower on the mountain as a marker. The van couldn’t be more than a mile away. But there was no way of knowing where it had parked. Ben felt a terrible urgency. If Julie was in the back of the van like he thought ...

  “Please, dear God, don’t let her be dead.”

  His breath burned his lungs as he ran in the cold night air dodging the rocks and cacti.

  + + +

  The moon was higher now. Its golden surface, bleached white, revealed the gray pockmarking that marred its face. Lorenzo was tired. The mountain beckoned in the distance. Several spirit guides had joined him and he had stopped often to talk with them and rest. His feet were cold.

  Oku pin played games with him, skipping away as he got near and sliding farther back out of reach. He had waved his cane at the mountain and thought he heard it laugh. He wouldn’t steal its secrets. He asked it to let him enter, let him climb to the stones heaped in a mound, to the earth’s navel. He must make an offering to the spirits.

  He slipped down the sides of the arroyo and waited until the spirits gave him his breath back. He looked around him. The arroyos carried water down from the mountain. The spirits had shown him the way.

  They had placed him in the dry water path that would lead to Oku pin.

  He pulled himself upright and shouted a prayer to the moon, to the spirit guides and lastly to Oku pin. His heart fluttered in his chest at his happiness. He dug his cane into the soft sand and shuffled forward.

  + + +

  “Did you hear something?”

  Bob’s friend had pulled Julie from the van and propped her against the back tire. Julie had heard it too, and it didn’t sound human. She shifted her weight. She could taste blood on her tongue where the electrical tape had pushed her upper lip against her teeth.

  “Yeah. Coyotes probably. They come down into the foothills and stalk domestic cats.”

  “You’re kidding.” The friend sounded incredulous.

  Bob laughed. “Hey, this is the wilds. A few years ago the city was invaded by black bears. Thirty or forty of them raiding garbage cans and scaring everyone to death.”

  “Let’s get going. This place gives me the creeps.” Bob’s friend looked nervously around.

  “Take it easy. Cut the ropes at her ankles but leave her hands tied.” Bob handed the man a hunting knife. “Walk her about twenty yards up the arroyo and leave the body exposed. Less to identify later on.”

  “Jesus, are you saying wild animals will eat on the body?”

  “C’mon. You knew this wouldn’t be a drive-by shooting. Just get going.”

  Julie watched Bob climb back in the van. The interior light blinked before he closed the door. The muffled sounds of a local rock station intruded on the desert silence. Bob was just going to stay out of sight, sit tight until it was all over. The friend was hired help. Must be making a bundle for this little favor. Julie looked up at her soon-to-be assassin. He was sweating in the cold night air. Should she be elated that there would only be one of them to contend with? Now, at the end.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Ben. Had he been at the station? Had he been the one looking in her car? Asking questions in the office? He had to be. Did he suspect foul play? Would he notify the police?

  Julie ached from lying in one position under the heavy tarp for what must have been two hours. She watched the man kneel at her ankles and slice through the rope that was beginning to cut off circulation. Her knees buckled when the man dragged her to her feet, and he had to catch her and hold her to keep her upright.

  This was her chance. She had to keep panic from pushing anything rational from her consciousness. Thank God, Bob didn’t want to get his hands dirty. She caught the man’s eye. Then watched as his gaze wandered down the front of her open blouse. She had seen the way he looked at her earlier. Maybe, just maybe, she could prolong the inevitable by seduction. Long enough to give her a chance to escape. Unless he was into necrophilia.

  She slid a knee up his inner thigh, slowly, barely touching the fabric of his jeans, maintaining eye contact. His hands tightened on her shoulders. He was thinking of it. Just a little fun before he had to earn his money.

  She leaned forward and let the fingers of her trussed hands play with the zipper of his pants. He had the idea. He was breathing harder now as he roughly turned her away from him and, supporting her with an arm around her shoulders, started to walk into the shadows. Wispy clouds obscured the moon, then floated on, leaving the silver light unobstructed.

  He thrust a hand inside her blouse, kneading, then he began to hurry, pushing and pulling her around a bend in the arroyo, out of sight of the van. No use letting your benefactor see you take advantage of a fringe benefit, Julie thought.

  Someone had discarded a mattress at the side of the deep ditch about a hundred feet from the van; he pulled her toward it and pushed her down onto her back. He ripped her blouse to the waist and arched over her, sucking and biting her while his hands fumbled with his fly. He pushed himself back to his knees, pulled at his clothing, moaned, shuddered, then grabbed her by the hair, reached for the hunting knife and in one movement cut the tape behind her ear. He wrenched one side free to expose her mouth, then forced her head forward and down.

  Suddenly he froze. She felt his body tense. “Bear. A damn bear.”

  The words were a strangled whisper. Julie felt the fist that held her head immobile let loose of her hair and go slack as he pulled away and tried to stand. Hobbled by his underwear, he fell hard, bare buttocks and tailbone crunching against a jutting piece of granite imbedded in the arroyo floor and surrounded by cholla cactus. But his scream of pain was drowned by the grunts coming from the animal that ambled toward them.

  Julie grabbed the hunting knife and scrambled up the side of the arroyo before she adjusted her clothing and turned to take a good look behind. The creature’s large head and bulky body kept it from moving quickly. For all its size, it was balanced upright on spindly legs. Legs wrapped in leather, its feet in moccasins.

  “Oh, my God.”

  The light of the moon danced over the plaid hood of the poncho, illuminating the large checked pattern, before ducking back behind a cloud. “Lorenzo.” Julie started to move forward when a hand closed around her ankle. Bob. She whirled and brought the knife above her head to bury it in his neck, just as her feet were pulled out from under her, and she felt herself sliding down the embankment on her back, the knife clattering to one side.

  “Julie. It’s me. Ben.” He picked up the knife, cut the ropes at her wrists and pulled her to her feet. “Grab Lorenzo. Get him out of the way. I’ll take care of the guy on the ground.”

  Then he was gone, back over the lip of the arroyo and across the sand and rocks. Julie rushed to Lorenzo, hugged him and assured him he was safe, then led him to a clump of piñon. The next time she looked,
Ben had the man’s arm twisted behind his back, the knife at his throat. The guy’s jeans were still around his ankles.

  In the distance a car started. The van. Bob was getting away. But, did it matter? He probably wouldn’t get far. Lights were coming down the arroyo. The first two policemen to reach them were on horseback and, after talking with Ben, quickly radioed for backup and put an all-points out on the van.

  Sandy and a search party on foot joined them.

  “Other than being hungry, this man’s in great shape.” Sandy finished checking Lorenzo and handed him a granola bar. “Now, what about you?” He turned to Julie. “Looks like the rope took a little skin off of your wrists. And let me see that tape burn.” Sandy turned her head to the side and held a flashlight up to her cheek.

  “I’ll live. That might be the one who’s injured the most.” She pointed to the man held by the two policemen.

  “If you’ve got a minute, doc, this guy’s got some nasty looking puncture wounds to the glutes.”

  Julie stood huddled in Ben’s jacket, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Shock or cold, she didn’t know which. She just knew that Ben hadn’t stopped holding her since the police had come. His arms felt good and kept her from thinking about what had almost happened.

  “Let’s get everyone into the patrol cars.” A young officer nodded to Ben and Julie. “I’d like to get your statements tonight. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.” As they walked back to the road, Julie kept Ben’s arm around her.

  SIXTEEN

  When it dawned on Bob that his pal just might take time for a piece of ass, he’d thought of going after them, making certain that she was killed quickly. But then he thought, why not? She deserved to get screwed, and his pal had never been one to turn down a little nooky. Fifty thousand and a go wasn’t bad pay.

  He heard the scream above the radio and rolled down the window. Why the hell had he untaped her mouth? He turned to get the revolver out of the glove compartment and saw the twinkling lights moving toward him just above ground level. A search party about a hundred yards away. The lights dipped and scattered, then merged for a few moments before fanning out some twenty across.

  He didn’t even realize he was beating his fists against the steering wheel. He had thought something like this might happen.

  Something might go wrong. That’s why he had placed a call to his sponsors—they always liked to be called that—back East. And now the plan they suggested would be put into place. He turned the key in the ignition, gunned the engine, and rabbit-hopped over two low mounds of dirt and cacti before climbing up the side of the arroyo. He couldn’t risk his lights until he was back on the street. The van had amazing traction and tractability for something so big and bulky; it slid down an embankment and crashed over the curbing, spinning out as the tires fought to take hold of the sand-covered pavement. He’d go back to Paseo Del Norte and get on the access road that paralleled the freeway. He reached for his cell phone and tapped a number. A quick call and a pilot would meet him at Coronado Airport. He felt the wad of thousand dollar bills push into his groin as he pressed the gas pedal. He’d thought of everything. By the time anyone came looking, he’d be in Mexico. Then on to South America.

  The pilot would be in the second hangar to the left. Bob pulled the van around back, sticking to the shadows behind the huge rounded structures. There. A white BMW was parked at an angle just beyond a door at the back. Bob pulled the van alongside.

  The cavernous building was dimly lighted. It took Bob a minute to get his bearings.

  “We’re gassed and ready to go.” The voice was just above a whisper, emotionless, with a hint of urgency.

  “You startled me.” Bob had not seen the tall man in dark clothing until he’d been almost on top of him.

  “This way.”

  The pilot walked briskly ahead of him to the front of the hangar. A single-engine plane sat facing north. Single-engine. Not that he’d expected a Lear Jet, but this? This looked like a stunt plane—or maybe a crop-duster. It had to be a relic from the fifties.

  “What’s the problem? ’Fraid it can’t fly?”

  “No. No. I’m just not crazy about flying in general.”

  “I suggest we get going.” The pilot was already up the steps and ducking into the cockpit.

  Bob scrambled up the ladder pulling it into the plane after him. The door seemed a little tinny. He took one of the two seats behind the pilot and tried to concentrate on the gauges and not on the fact that the engine seemed to be stuttering. Finally, it caught, held and whirred into motion.

  “We’re off.”

  They taxied the length of the runway, turned, wobbled, the engine sputtering one last time before the small craft lurched forward and, gaining speed, lifted into the air.

  Ahead of them loomed the Sandias. The pilot was looping to the northeast. Bob watched the mountain grow large. He could almost count the trees on the crest. He looked down into the thickly forested slopes broken only by long slashes of cleared land. Ski runs.

  “I hope your trip is pleasant.”

  Bob jerked back from the window. The pilot was pointing a 9MM at his head. In one fluid motion the pilot hit the door with his boot, crouched and jumped backward, pushing away from the plane, his parachute only grazing the gaping opening in the plane’s side. Then he was enveloped in blackness; the roar of the wind and sputtering engine punctuated his retreat.

  + + +

  Douglas Anderson sat smoking in his study. He’d start the cigar before dinner and finish it with coffee and a little B&B afterward. He rolled it between his fingers. This particular cigar was one of a dozen individually wrapped in its own plastic humidor all neatly lined up side by side in his desk drawer. One of life’s little pleasures that he allowed himself—thanks to close friends who traveled.

  He had a call in to Bob Crenshaw but was only vaguely worried that he hadn’t heard back. He’d been contacted by the foreman of the construction crew working on the casino. They were ready to lower the glass domed ceiling into place in the morning. The grand opening would be January fifteenth. No set-backs. They were right on schedule. Even the new Tewa governor was supportive.

  “Dinner’s ready.” Mollie had rapped lightly on the door before stepping into the room.

  “Where’s Junior?”

  “He’s already at the table, Mr. Douglas.”

  “I’ll just be a minute. Tell him not to start without me, Mollie. And take that bottle of white wine out of the fridge.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mollie retreated into the wide hallway, closing the door behind her.

  Douglas took two last puffs on the cigar before carefully tapping it out and dropping it back into its case. Junior could just wait on him. Age had some privileges. At one time he had considered booting Junior out, not letting him come home to live after his divorce. But the house was empty. Too big for one person now that his wife was dead. And he could get lonely. No, it had been a good idea to let Junior come back.

  He walked across the great room to the dining area off the kitchen. The hand-thrown pottery dinnerware and matching serving pieces gleamed in the candlelight. He always dined by candlelight. It was civilized and made almost any food look appetizing. Not that he had to worry about unappealing food. Mollie was a jewel. All his friends tried to steal her away.

  Junior folded the evening newspaper and placed it on the table as Douglas pulled his chair out and sat down. No reading at the table. That had been a rule since Junior was a child. Mollie placed plates of leafy greens covered with croutons and an aromatic dressing in front of each of them, then passed a covered basket of toasted parmesan bread to Douglas.

  “What’s for dinner? Something Italian?” Junior asked.

  “Umhmm. Pesto and linguini. One of your favorites, Mr. Anderson.”

  Neither of them seemed talkative, Douglas thought as he passed the wine to Junior. Of course, neither wanted to say too much in front of Mollie. Douglas helped himself to seconds on the pest
o sauce. Mollie had outdone herself. The pesto was perfect. Maybe another raise was in order. He couldn’t afford to lose her.

  + + +

  Mollie watched from the kitchen, filling dishes or running in to carry away dirty plates. Dessert was a sour cream apple torte with toasted almonds, but it was the pesto that she was most proud of. She slipped the note from her apron pocket and smoothed it out on the counter. She had kept it hidden, but Monday she knew it was time.

  “If anything happens to me—if I should die or end up missing—use these seeds and make something for the Andersons to eat.”

  It was simply signed, Johnson. She struck a match on the grout between the hand painted tiles around the sink and held the flame to one corner of the note. It caught quickly; the corner curling and falling away to ash as Mollie dropped the remnant into the stainless steel basin. There, that was done. Next, she turned on the disposal, aimed a stream of cold water at the drain and scraped the last of the pesto and linguini into the center of the swirling mass.

  She didn’t know for sure what would happen, but she could guess. Something terrible. She didn’t care. She missed Johnson. And, she could always find another job. Mollie was humming as she carried the coffee carafe into the dining room.

  “Mollie, you’ve outdone yourself. The pesto was superb.” Douglas was leaning back in his chair. “Was that a new recipe?”

  “No. Well, I did use some chopped pumpkin seeds for garnish.”

  “Pumpkin seeds?” Junior looked at his father. Then both started to laugh. When Douglas had recovered, he held his wine glass above his head.

  “To pumpkin seeds. A little present from nature that’s given me everything I could ever want.”