Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  “Stretch, I’m going to ask you one time, and if our friendship ever meant anything to you, then you need to tell me the truth. Did you tell him about Melissa?”

  Stretch said nothing, tears welling up in his eyes.

  “You attended every one of her birthday parties.” Joe’s voice broke. “You went to her graduation. You told Christine on her deathbed that we were your family.”

  Stretch said nothing. But the tear that slid down his cheek said everything.

  Joe lowered his head.

  “How could you? How could you? You knew what Othmann was capable of.” Joe looked up, anger replacing sorrow. “You told him about the mask and about my wanting to go after him, didn’t you? You set me up. Because of you, Bluehorse is dead.”

  Joe slammed Stretch against the stone wall. “Because of you!” He slammed him again. “I trusted you!”

  Dale came up and tried to pull him away.

  “I trusted you!” Joe struggled to hold on to his best friend. Once he let go, Stretch would be gone. Gone forever. Like Christine. Another part of his life gone. Like Bluehorse, gone. Like his job, gone. He was losing everything. And he could have lost Melissa because of his best friend’s betrayal.

  The two FBI agents grabbed Joe.

  With a burst of strength, he threw Stretch back against the fireplace. His head smacked against stone. The agents dragged Joe away.

  Dale snatched Stretch’s weapon.

  Stretch bent over and put his hand to the back of his head. When he took it away, blood spotted his fingers.

  Bluehorse was just a kid,” Joe said. “A goddamn kid, and you killed him!” Joe couldn’t talk anymore. The image of Bluehorse on the ground, struggling to breathe, flashed into his mind and wouldn’t leave. Pressure built in his throat. He wanted to scream, to let it out, but he couldn’t. It was stuck, and he didn’t know how to get it unstuck. His body slumped. The agents must have felt the change, because they relaxed their grip on his arms and let him go.

  Stretch slid to the floor, crying. “I’m sorry.”

  OCTOBER 15

  FRIDAY, 2:35 P.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Professor Trudle had been in the middle of presenting the arcaeological implications of Coronado’s 1540 expedition in search of the Seven Cities of Gold to his two o’clock Ancient New Mexico class when two FBI agents walked into the lecture hall. They quietly identified themselves and asked him to accompany them to Santa Fe to assist with an investigation. Class dismissed.

  Now the agents led him through Othmann’s house to the same study he had been in less than two weeks earlier. Other agents milled about the various rooms, taking photos and bagging evidence. One of the large display cabinets had been pulled away from the wall and agents disappeared behind it.

  “I’m Agent Andi McBride,” a redheaded woman said to Trudle. “Agent Evers gave me your name and said you could assist us with inventorying some items.”

  “Yes, of course,” Trudle said.

  She led Trudle down a flight of stairs behind the display case and into a temperature-controlled room larger than a three-car garage. Glass cabinets filled the space. Half a dozen people who looked like agents were already there, spread throughout the space, some photographing, some taking notes, some simply staring in awe at the items there, just like Trudle.

  Andi stood next to one of the displays. “Over here, Professor.”

  “That’s the Yei mask I told Joe about,” he said, looking through the glass beside her. “It was upstairs in the study the last time we were here.” In front of the mask was a white card with printed information.

  “I need you to look around and see if you can identify any other items that might have been stolen. I have a feeling all the stuff down here fits that bill.”

  Trudle moved slowly through the room. The items in the cabinets captivated him: pottery, bones, ancient tools, petroglyphs and pictographs. He listened to the conversations among the agents, who also were amazed by the collection.

  “Andi,” a female agent called. She wore her dark hair in a tight bun and her jacket had BIA emblazoned in large yellow letters on the back. “This belonged to Eddie Begay.” Trudle looked. She held a beautiful turquoise and silver necklace “The son of a bitch even wrote down the date: September twenty-third. The same day he disappeared.”

  “Hey, Matt,” Andi said. “Pull up that date.”

  Matt stood by a tall metal server rack. Two monitors were mounted on the wall above. The screen on the right showed various camera angles around the house. The monitor on the left displayed Othmann’s study.

  On the screen, Othmann was alone in the room until two men entered. Trudle recognized Othmann’s bodyguard. The other man, he did not know. A few minutes later, the bodyguard hit the other man, who fell to the floor. Trudle stopped watching when the bodyguard looped his belt around the other man’s neck.

  Trudle returned to examining the cabinets. One item after another told a significant story about Native American history. He made his way slowly down the aisles, taking his time, reading all the cards associated with the objects. It was obvious Othmann had had no intention of anyone ever seeing these items or reading the cards. They were detailed accounts of how he’d come by the items, sometimes even documenting if they’d been stolen and when.

  Oversize cabinets populated the last aisle. He began his methodical perusal and then stopped.

  “Oh my…”

  He dropped to his knees and leaned against the cabinet before him. Joy filled his being. He had finally found his artifacts. The Trudle Turkey would be no more.

  OCTOBER 15

  FRIDAY, 8:48 P.M.

  JOE EVERS’S APARTMENT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  When Joe returned home, he told Melissa about Stretch.

  Afterward, they sat next to each other on the couch, neither of them speaking. He appreciated the silence, and her company.

  His mind turned to Christine. Since her death, he hadn’t seen any of their couples friends. They, of course, had tried to reach out to him, perhaps in a sincere effort to continue the relationship, but he’d avoided their contact. He didn’t want to be a third, fifth, or seventh wheel at get-togethers. He thought of their attempts as sympathy invites. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they had recognized something he was only now beginning to understand. That it was time for him to move forward. To live again. Not to forget her, no. He would never do that. But maybe to share her life with others. Share her through his memories of her love and their time together.

  “Would you like to see a Coelophysis?” Joe said.

  “A what? It sounds like something you grow in a petri dish.”

  “Come on, everyone knows what a Coelophysis is. It’s the state dinosaur.”

  OCTOBER 16

  SATURDAY, 10:11 A.M.

  THE NEW MEXICO MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY AND SCIENCE, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  “I like your Coel … Coelophysis display,” Melissa said.

  Sierra beamed.

  Joe had not called ahead to see if Sierra was working today, but he was happy when he saw her by the Coelophysis display, changing out the plastic plants.

  Sierra asked a volunteer to finish replacing the flora, and then she accompanied Joe and Melissa around the museum. Joe noticed she did not take them to the same displays that she had taken him to, but to others, new to him.

  Despite his efforts, he found it hard to concentrate. His mind kept returning to the case and the body search going on at Jones Ranch. He sneaked into the bathroom and called Andi.

  “I missed Pauly’s soccer game for this,” Andi said. “But it’s better than being at Othmann’s house. I put Mark in charge of the art recovery. He’s going to be there at least a week cataloging that tomb below the study. And your professor is quite the character. He wanted to sleep there last night. Was going to have his wife drive over his toothbrush and pillow.”

  Joe laughed. It felt good. Even his cheek enjoyed it.

&
nbsp; “Have you found anything in the woods?”

  “Nothing. I’m telling you now, if it turns out Edgerton’s been sunning himself on a beach somewhere, I’m going to drag his ass out here and bury him myself.”

  “I’ll bring the shovel.”

  “What are you doing with your time off?”

  “Learning about dinosaurs.”

  “Yeah, that’s nice. You’re a real catch, Joe. Pure adventure. Well, let me go see what the mutts are up to.”

  They disconnected. He felt better after talking to Andi and returned to the museum tour with renewed interest.

  An hour later, it seemed an appropriate time for a break. He felt a tickle in his chest. Nerves?

  “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he asked Sierra.

  Melissa glanced at him. He hadn’t mentioned Sierra to her, but he suspected she now realized his wanting to go to the museum had been a cheap trick.

  “Sure,” Sierra said. She looked at Melissa. “If that’s okay.”

  They ate lunch at the museum’s café. Sierra seemed to take a real interest in Melissa and Columbia. When Sierra told her that she, too, had been selected to take part in an exchange program with Cambridge, Melissa was sold. They seemed like new best friends. Joe quickly became the interloper at the table as they discussed England. Then the conversation took an abrupt shift.

  “Can you go to dinner with us tonight?” Melissa asked. “My father promised a nice restaurant before I fly back tomorrow. And we could talk more about Cambridge.”

  Sierra looked at him.

  Caught off guard, all he could think to do was smile and nod, his best impression of an imbecile.

  “I would love to,” Sierra said.

  A lucky imbecile.

  OCTOBER 16

  SATURDAY, 10:10 P.M.

  JOE EVERS’S APARTMENT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Melissa had insisted he take a platter home from the restaurant, an elegant hibachi grill on San Mateo, and made him promise to lay off burritos. When Sierra learned about the burrito lady diet, she invited him to her house the following week for a home-cooked meal. Only then did it become clear: His daughter had set him up. Afterward, they took Sierra home and called it a night.

  Joe carried the food container as he and Melissa walked from the car to the front door of his apartment building. He took out his phone and turned it on.

  Seven missed calls and three text messages. Before he could check them, his phone rang in his hand.

  He glanced at Melissa.

  “Don’t answer it,” she said.

  “Sorry, Brainy Bug.”

  “Damn, Joe.” Andi’s voice blared through the earpiece. “I’ve been calling you all night.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We found him.”

  “Books?”

  “Edgerton. And not just him. We’ve got two bodies. A man and a woman.”

  Everyone talked about finding Edgerton. He wanted to find Edgerton, of course. But finding Sierra’s sister had become personal for him.

  “Could it have been a ceremonial burial?” He wanted to pull back the words as soon as they passed his lips. Of course it was Edgerton.

  “It’s a shallow grave and the condition of the clothing and the bones are similar to our other body. It’s gotta be them.”

  “You still out there?”

  “We’ll be here all night.”

  “Give me a couple hours.”

  He hung up.

  Melissa glared at him.

  He didn’t say anything. She couldn’t understand what it was like to be an investigator. To take on a case, a murder, and feel responsible for the victim. To be driven by something greater than yourself, an unstoppable compulsion to find the truth, to restore balance, to hold someone accountable for a wrong committed. Some called it “closure.” Others, like Joe, could not put a label on something so nebulous. He never tried to name it. He had simply let it drive him throughout his career.

  He inserted his key in the apartment door’s top lock. It turned, then stopped. Already unlocked. Melissa had been the last one out and hadn’t set the dead bolt. Even after the break-in at her apartment. She had to get out of the habit of locking only the knob. But now was not the time to go into that. He was about to break his promise.

  “Melissa, I’m sorry. I have—”

  “Save it, Dad. I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to do what you want to do regardless of what I say.”

  Her words pierced his soul. That was what Christine used to say when they argued and he went against her wishes.

  Melissa rushed past him into the apartment.

  He closed the door and threw the dead bolt. And then he knew something was wrong. Very wrong. The sixth sense that most cops developed after experiencing so many bad situations kicked in. He bent down to pull the gun from his ankle holster.

  “Don’t.” The voice was calm but firm.

  He looked up and saw Melissa was straight ahead, a mask of fear on her face. She stood by the counter that separated the kitchen on the right from the living room on the left.

  Books stood in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He held Cordelli’s Glock.

  Joe’s stomach clenched.

  “Lissa, come and stand by me.” If he could get her to the door, he would take the first bullet, give her time to run. He kept his eyes on Books.

  Melissa started forward.

  Books raised the gun. “Stay.”

  “Point the gun at me, Books, please.” He’d added please to make Books feel in control. He wanted him calm. Calm would buy time. He hoped.

  “We’re going to do this nice and slow,” Books said, his voice devoid of emotion. He sounded like a man in control, someone who didn’t make mistakes. But he had made a mistake. He’d killed Bluehorse instead of Joe, and he had fled Othmann’s. Why? Because he knew if Andi had taken his DNA, it would match the blood at the scene of the shoot-out.

  Melissa had her arms raised, eyes wide.

  Books walked to the center of the living room.

  Joe needed his hands free, so he leaned to his right to place the food container on the thin table that sat against the wall next to the door, the same table where Bluehorse’s oak kachina now rested.

  “Don’t put it down.” Books was on to Joe’s tactic, and he probably guessed Joe wore an ankle holster. He waved the gun toward the kitchen. “Walk.”

  As Joe moved, Books also moved, placing himself by the door.

  Joe stopped in front of Melissa. Fear paid him a visit. Not the fear he would be killed, but the fear he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  “Why did you come back? Why didn’t you run?”

  Books shook his head. The gesture meant nothing.

  “I’m retiring,” Joe said. “I’m not coming after you. You can still get away.”

  “That’s funny. I was retiring, too. Made all my plans. Had all the money I needed. And then you came along investigating Eddie and ruined everything.”

  “I wasn’t interested in Eddie. I was looking into Congressman Edgerton’s disappearance.”

  “No. Mr. O. said you were investigating Eddie, too.”

  “I wasn’t. Another agent was. The one Othmann was paying off. He lied to you. I wasn’t interested in Eddie. Just Edgerton. So you had nothing to worry about. You weren’t even with Othmann when Edgerton went missing.”

  “You were investigating Eddie. Mr. O. didn’t have anything to do with the missing congressman.”

  “How do you know he didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “He’s coking all the time now, doesn’t know what he says anymore.” Books held his gun in his left hand. It seemed unsteady, as though he wasn’t used to the motion. His right hand hung down by his side, motionless. “That’s why I’m retiring. He’s flaking out. I asked him when he was floatin’ if he killed the congressman. He said no. I believe him. He’s crazy. He likes to tell his dead father the shit he does. If he had anything to do with your guy, he wou
ld have told me.”

  “You don’t have to do this. You can still leave. Run. Retire.” Joe watched Books’s right arm. It was unnatural. He suspected Books had injured it. Perhaps the blood at the shooting scene in Jones Ranch was from that arm. He was probably right-handed and that’s why his left appeared choppy. That could be a weakness Joe could exploit.

  “It’s too late now. You fucked everything up. Eddie fucked things up, too. I can’t hurt him anymore, but I can hurt you.”

  “Let my daughter go. She has nothing to do with this.”

  Books looked directly at Melissa. “Come here.”

  In that instant, Joe knew what Books intended. He would hurt her in front of Joe. Make him suffer the ultimate pain. Books had come back not because he wanted to stop Joe from going after him. No. That had probably been Othmann’s foolish idea. Books wanted revenge.

  Joe sensed her moving. He reacted, stepped to the side, making sure his body was between Melissa and the gun, and launched himself at Books, throwing the food container first.

  Seared beef and grilled vegetables exploded on the big man’s face and upper chest even as he raised his arms to stop it, the gun still in his hand.

  A deafening blast. Another.

  Joe felt nothing. He crashed into Books, driving him back with his shoulder, both his hands on the Glock. He grasped the top of the weapon, pressing on the slide, pushing it back so it would unseat the firing pin, twisting it down and to the side so it would face away from Melissa.

  Something hit the back of his head. His vision went white.

  “Run, Lissa! Run!”

  Another crack to his head. He knew he would lose consciousness soon.

  Books punched at him again and again with his right fist. Joe had been wrong. His right arm may have been injured, but it wasn’t incapacitated. Books had simply been favoring it. His one advantage was now gone. Anger welled up inside him. Anger and desperation. He struck at Books with all his strength, trying to give this monster pause, a break in the attack to get clear of him so he could draw his own weapon.