She went to her desk and dialed the Tehachapi station of the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. She counted the rings. They always picked up by the third ring. She liked them for that. Kern County’s finest knew something about serving the public.
“Yes, this is Linda Reyes for Officer Eugene Bohannon.” She doodled a daisy flower on a scrap of paper. “I’m returning his call.” God, she hated explaining things twelve times. The “returning his call” gambit cut through traffic.
“Hi, Gene. It’s Linda Reyes here.”
“Linda! How’re you doin’?”
“Fine. How about you?”
Now he was telling her. What was the matter with the man? Didn’t he know a rhetorical question when he heard one?
“Say, listen, Eugene. What’s up over in Randsburg? Heard something about a fire. Is it worth the drive? … Okay, I can wait.” She doodled another daisy, then started counting the petals. Loves me? Loves me not? Loves me? Loves me not? Loves me not, it came out. Too bad about that. She drew another petal. It’s my daisy, she thought.
“Yeah, I’m still here. Um-hm. Yeah. So nothing on who set the fire. The Ophir mine—isn’t that part of the Rand District? I’m less than an hour away. I’ll go have a look. Say, can you let them know I’ll be on the scene? Thanks, Gene. I really appreciate it.”
Uh-oh, here it comes, she thought. Couldn’t he figure out she was at least ten years older than he was? “Can’t this weekend, Eugene. Working my other job. It’s a long story. Listen, I gotta get goin’.” She nodded. “Sure, anytime. I’ll buy you a beer. Thanks again, Eugene.”
She felt like a hypocrite. He had a schoolboy crush, and she was using it. Then she remembered she’d been banished from her dad’s club. A feeling of dread came creeping back.
Marston was sitting on the edge of his desk, adjusting the margins on his old Smith-Corona. He claimed he wrote better stuff on the typewriter than on the computer, but she’d never seen him type anything on it but notes and memos. He avoided office E-mail. Too impersonal, he said. He’d be dead meat on a big paper, but he was okay. She liked the typed memos. The stuff of Deadline—U.S.A.
“Marston,” she said, making her voice crack with a cynical lack of interest.
“Yeah, what’s up?” He twisted in his chair. The cameras were rolling.
“Need the news wagon. Car’s at home.”
He frowned. “I was planning to go over to the base.”
She knew he liked the official car with the paper’s seal on the side when he rolled through the gates at the China Lake Naval Ordnance Test Station. The official car provided presence. The news wagon gave him the right gravitas.
“So borrow Lucky’s MG.”
Lucky Rogers had seen Deadline—U.S.A., too. Norman Rogers thought of himself as the plucky kid—the kid who’d make the big scoop. He and George Marston inhabited the same movie. She briefly wondered if Marston’s mother had the Ethel Barrymore role, plucky grande dame. After all, she did own part of the paper.
Lucky Rogers had a fire engine red 1953 MG TD, restored to its original quirky beauty. It was classy in a way that new cars never seemed to be. What a place, she thought. Small-town newspapers were the last refuge for the weird, and Lord knows, she fit right in.
Marston twisted farther around in his chair, facing Norman Rogers as he kicked one foot up on a partially opened drawer. “Hey, that’d work out, and you could come along, keep your eyes open. Whatta ya say, kid?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Marston. Glad to help out.”
How could he stand being called “kid”? Linda wanted to add, Gee whiz, that’s swell. Well, it was swell for her. She had a car to use, Marston would have presence, and Norman was on a mission with the boss to the China Lake test center.
Actually, Linda hated driving the damn news wagon. It was an eight-year-old Dodge minivan with over 150,000 miles on it, and the suspension was shot. With growing regret, she jounced over the washboard road leading up to the mine. She kept telling herself she’d come this far, might just as well go on. She remembered how cranky Frank had been bouncing around in the truck on the drive up to Surprise Canyon and how he’d frowned at her laughter when the glove compartment had flown open. Well, there was something else they had in common. She hated being tossed around in the cab of a vehicle like laundry in a washing machine.
Finally, up ahead she saw a Kern County police car and an elderly fire truck, probably from the Rand Volunteer Fire Department. The police car had been pulled around across the road so as to control access to the site. The fire truck was farther up, near the blackened shell of a single-wide mobile home. The scorched body of the trailer rested on cement blocks, a good two feet off the ground at the high end. The aluminum poles of what had been the awning stuck out from the top of the trailer in a pointless rectangle, bits of burned cloth draping the metal in dismal shreds. She pulled up, careful not to block access. Never start by being a problem—rule number two. Get there first was rule number one, but rule number two kept the doors from closing.
The smell of burned plastic and the acrid odor of chemicals and ashes filled her nostrils. The trailer had been completely gutted by the fire. Here and there, the remains of pink and gray paint showed through the accumulated grime at what must have been the bedroom end. Someone—probably the firefighters—had pried the burned door open. It hung there in macabre invitation to the smoke-blackened interior. She couldn’t see much. A couple of grim-faced deputies stood talking with two unhappy-looking volunteer firemen. Their conversation lapsed into silence at her approach. No barbershop quartet here. She wondered what was up.
“Hi, I’m Linda Reyes, with the InyoKern Courier. Did Officer Bohannon contact you yet?”
The older deputy, gray-haired and paunchy, gave a small smile. “He did, and you live right up to his description.” He offered his hand. “Cotton DeLacey.”
She smiled back as she took DeLacey’s hand. “Well, I try not to disappoint.”
“This is Pete Fisher.” DeLacey gestured to a tall, husky redheaded deputy. Like most denizens of the desert, he wore dark sunglasses. Bits of skin flecked off his nose. It was tough being fair-skinned in the Mojave. He gestured toward the firefighters. “Hillyard and Sandstrom.” The two firemen made soft howdy sounds. They shuffled their feet, looking uncomfortable. They seemed to have come in the same box.
She waited. She was used to stoic cops but not to silent ones. As a reporter, she had learned not to fill in the voids of conversation, so she said nothing. Apparently, it was the end of the small talk. The mood was definitely somber. She took out pad and pencil. “So what’s up?” she finally asked.
“It was more than a just a fire, Ms. Reyes. There were two people in that trailer. Someone, or several someones, blocked them in. Then they dragged all the wood they could find and stuffed it under the trailer. By the looks of it, most of it by the door. Then they set it on fire and roasted those people alive.” DeLacey spit, as if to get the taste out of his mouth.
“Do you know who they are—were?”
“Not for sure. But Hillyard and Sandstrom here tell me there was a young couple living here as caretakers. All this property and the mining rights belong to the Ophir Mining Corporation. My guess is that’s who they were, the caretakers, but there’s no way of knowing for sure until—”
“Until you’ve got a positive identification. I know.” She was writing quickly even as she spoke. “When did this happen?”
“Rand Fire Department got an anonymous call this morning. The man didn’t want to leave his name. Said he didn’t want to wind up having to wait around. Besides, all he claimed to have seen was smoke coming from what was left of the trailer about eight this morning. That right, Bob?” The taller of the two firemen, the one who had been identified as Hillyard, nodded in affirmation. “So that’s about it. You’ve got what we’ve got.”
Both firemen looked uncomfortable.
“Why didn’t they try to force their way out, break a window, do something?” L
inda directed her question to include the firemen.
“’Cause, ma’am, they couldn’t.” She saw two tiny images of herself in the curve of the redheaded deputy’s glasses. “See, they’d been tied up.” The muscles on his jaw worked in and out.
It struck her with the force of a blow. It was them. Why hadn’t she known sooner? Frank had told her about the couple he’d talked to after the lecture, Mitch and Shawna. They’d been in the class, holding hands and talking about Jesus, and now they were gone. My God, it could’ve been me, she thought, or anyone who got in their way. Then she thought about Frank on his way to take care of Eddie’s cat. He was in the valley, so she should be able to reach his cell phone. She punched the autodial and waited. He wasn’t picking up, or he’d left it at home again. Damn. The phone buzzed against her ear.
21
Frank pulled in under the cottonwoods near Eddie’s trailer. There was no sign of Eddie’s rust-bucket Ford pickup, a ’48 flathead. Too bad, Frank thought, truck like that needed restoring. Not likely Eddie would fix it up. He’d just drive it until it quit and leave it to decay into a sad heap. He supposed that Eddie had forgotten his request about leaving the keys and had driven over to the Sheriff’s office in Independence. Now Eddie’d have impound fees, which he couldn’t pay, and now he, Frank, would have to figure on using his own truck when he assumed the role of Redhawk, Native American guide. He was looking forward to meeting up with Smith. Provide a surprise for the smug SOB. With any luck, Smith was going to have his hand in the cookie jar up to his armpit. Frank couldn’t help grinning to himself, going undercover just like the cops in L.A. Now that Eddie had disappeared with his truck, his own truck would need to go undercover, too. He’d have to go through the cab and get rid of anything that could tie him to law enforcement. From what Eddie had said, Smith was a smart cookie.
He opened the glove compartment and found maps, a pencil with a broken tip, pen, a couple of screwdrivers, pliers, a crescent wrench, matchbooks. He checked the backs of the matchbooks—a couple from bars, one blank book he’d got in a market. All okay. One Colt .45 model 1911A with military parkerized finish. Not okay. It wasn’t BLM-issue, but it wasn’t the sort of weapon a guy like Eddie would have in his glove compartment. The BLM had turned to the 9-mm, like most of law enforcement, but the .45 ACP was his weapon of choice if he needed one, which so far he hadn’t. Law enforcement with the BLM mostly meant dealing with miscreant citizens, rarely crooks. On the other hand, there was no backup. You were out there by yourself, with no one watching. He’d had his moments.
He took the gun from its soft leather holster. It slipped easily into his hand, familiar as a worn glove. The Sig-Sauer, with its fat grip to accommodate the staggered clip, was too thick for his hand, but the .45 just fit. He’d learned to shoot it in the army—when he’d been on the base pistol team, the .45 had become an extension of his hand. He’d point at something and, bingo, he’d hit it. Mostly, it sat in the glove compartment—that is, when he remembered to bring it.
He’d lost interest in guns after he got out of the service. Guns were for killing things. He had an obsolete skill. Still, it could be fun. He rarely missed; people were impressed. It was hard to leave something behind if you were good at it.
He rummaged under the seat. Uh-oh. Some pamphlets about the petroglyphs north of Bishop from one of his walk and talks. He stuffed them in a paper sack he’d found on the floor, along with other unwanted debris that could give him away. The gun was still a problem. He stuck it and the clip-on holster inside his belt, but he could see the bulge from the butt under his T-shirt. He pulled the holster and gun free from his belt and stuffed them under the seat, covering them with an old rag. That would have to do.
It was just past 10:00 A.M. when he pushed open the door to Eddie’s trailer. Dirty dishes covered with bits of food and black ants filled the sink. Their busy highway led out the grimy louvered window above the counter. He looked around for Prowler’s food bowl, then remembered that Eddie said Prowler used the shop. Probably liked it better than the trailer. Cats were usually fastidious. It looked as if Eddie had left and planned to come back later.
Frank began to have second thoughts about the plan. He hoped Eddie hadn’t just taken off. He was pretty sure he could get Eddie a break if he turned himself in, but if he made a run for it, he was in trouble, and so was Frank’s job with the BLM. He was definitely having qualms about his brilliant plan. Expecting the Eddies of this world to do what they’d promised was more than mildly optimistic.
He shook his head, wondering what had possessed him. But he knew: a chance to catch the poacher who’d killed his bighorns, which was not BLM business, as Meecham had pointed out to him in no uncertain terms.
He made his way out to the shop. Things looked a little better there. Some food was still in Prowler’s dish, and the water was reasonably clean. Keeping house wasn’t Eddie’s strong suit. Maybe Eddie was filling in the local law enforcement right now. He found a sack of dry cat food on the workbench, where Eddie’d said he’d leave it, and poured some pellets into Prowler’s dish. The cat came bounding in the window at the sound of food rattling against the plastic bowl. He stopped at the sight of Frank, tail fluffed out, ready to run. Frank called softly, “Come on, Prowler. Come on there, boy. Chow time.” He gently stirred the dry pellets in the bowl. The cat approached cautiously, then began contentedly munching cat fodder. Eddie’s pal. Guys like Eddie needed pals.
Time to get going and check in at the station. As his hand touched the door, someone banged on the metal screen on the other side. Couldn’t be Eddie, had to be someone looking for Eddie. He pulled the cheap door toward him and peered through the screen at the two men standing on the small wooden platform that served as a porch. The one in front was tall and wiry, graying hair pulled back into a ponytail. Oddly pink-rimmed eyes peered at him from a pale face over the first man’s shoulder. Wisps of white-blond hair poked out from under a blue kerchief. The pale face under the kerchief wore a fixed smile, white teeth surrounded by very red gums.
Frank’s heart thundered in his chest. This wasn’t part of the plan. How the hell had they found Eddie? Fear clouded thought, and he especially needed a clear head.
“Yeah, whaddya want?” Frank tried to sound like Eddie, ersatz tough guy.
“You Redhawk?” Ponytail asked.
“Some people call me that.”
“We met a guy who called you Redhawk. Said you were ‘heap good guide.’ Isn’t that right, Roy?” Ponytail winked back at his companion.
The pale one nodded slowly. “That’s right. He told us all about you.” The soft sandy voice triggered a chill in Frank’s stomach. Had they already found Eddie? Were they toying with him? He’d have to bluff it till he figured out what was happening. Get a grip and bluff it.
“So, whaddya want?” He slouched in the doorway.
“Hey, aren’t you going to invite us in? It’s not too polite to keep company standing around outside. Makes a person feel unwelcome. You don’t want us to feel unwelcome, do you?” The pale face was earnest, addressing matters of etiquette.
“Come on in.” Frank turned away and plopped himself on the brown Naugahyde couch liberally decorated with duct tape and put his feet up on the bricks and plywood that served as a coffee table. He hoped he looked casual, at ease, nonchalant, or at least not the way he felt—tense, hesitant, and confused. Somehow they’d tracked Eddie down.
Ponytail sat down in one of the two plastic patio chairs that completed the House Beautiful decor. While he fished into his pocket and lit up a hand-rolled cigarette, the one called Roy stepped carefully into the room, looking around, sizing up the place, alert. He moved easily, almost languorously, which belied the quick way he seemed to take in the place. He looked into the kitchen, then turned back and leaned against the doorjamb dividing the kitchen from the living room.
“Nice place you got here.” Roy exposed the red gums and white teeth. “Real homey.” He nodded to himself. “Just like ho
me.” His voice was almost inaudible. He gave Frank a slight smile. “So, Mr. Hawk, or do I call you Red?”
“The name’s Eddie, wiseass.”
Ponytail shook his head in mock disbelief. “Jesus, can’t believe it. Everywhere you go, somebody has to be a salty fucker.” He lifted his head to stare at Frank. The acrid smell of pot filled the room.
Frank looked from Ponytail’s empty eyes back to Roy’s nowunsmiling face. “Hell, call me Red, call me Eddie, just don’t call me late for dinner.” He forced a short laugh. Maybe he was overdoing the Eddie bit. “Shit, I don’t care what you call me. What the hell do you want?” He waited. “Come on, guys, I haven’t got a clue.” He figured Eddie would sound plaintive by now, and the truth was, it came pretty easily.
“Relax, man. We’re hunters, just looking for a guide. Isn’t that so?” Ponytail looked over at the one called Roy. “Maybe we can throw a little business your way.”
Frank had said close to the same thing to Eddie two days ago. Seemed like everyone was in business. “Yeah, what kind of business?”
“Hey, that’s better, Mr. Hawk. Right down to brass tacks.” The sandy voice trickled into the noon stillness. “See, we’re looking for a guy, a guy we know you know. A white hunter, heap big bucks, Red.”
Ponytail sucked on the joint, making little gasping sounds.
Roy went on. “You know, I like the name Red better than Eddie. Eddie sounds kind of chickenshit.” He paused. “No offense, Red. But don’t you think Red sounds more manly than Eddie?”
“I don’t give a shit how it sounds.”
Ponytail reached across and casually slapped Frank across the face. “Jeez, there you go again with that salty crap. Just listen up. Be polite.”
For a moment, Frank felt nothing but fury. He wanted to drive the heel of his hand into the base of Ponytail’s nose and watch him go down. Then he was calm, his senses sharp and alert, his surrounding etched with special clarity, the colors vivid, the sounds distinct. The gray threads of the duct tape traced a tangled pattern against the mud brown Naugahyde. He held the pink-rimmed pale eyes of the one standing, the very dangerous one, in photographic detail. The sounds of the leaves stirring in the cottonwoods reached him as clearly as the raspy breathing coming from Ponytail’s broken nose.
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