Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty)

by Sandra Bolton

  Hosteen ignored him and stood behind Abe, his arms crossed, his head tilted at an angle.

  Emily had recently showered, and her gleaming black hair fanned out on the white pillowcase. A broad smile spread across her face when she saw Abe and Hosteen.

  Abe matched her grin with one of his own and strode across the room. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, and kissed her on the lips. “You look like an angel. I should have brought flowers, but we were in a hurry to get here.” He glanced at Hosteen, who still stood near the door shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

  Emily smiled at her partner. “Joe. Did you two come together, or is it just a coincidence you both showed up at the same time?”

  “Abe came with me. After checking my head, the hospital decided I hadn’t lost all my marbles yet and released me. My mother gave me a ride back to Farmington. I wrote my report, and the boss told me to take a couple of days off. I wanted to come back to see how you’re doing, so I figured, ‘Why don’t Freeman and I ride together?’ So how’re you?”

  “Pretty good. The tibia and fibula were broken, but X-rays showed the bones had been aligned correctly before someone applied the temporary cast, and they didn’t have to reset it. I don’t know how she, um, how—”

  “Someone being Chipeta Longtooth?” said Hosteen.

  Emily smiled and quickly changed the subject. “Sit down, both of you, and catch me up on the case. I’m sorry I ran from the cult when I did and caused so much trouble, but you found the girls, right?” She grasped Abe’s hand and looked expectantly at his face.

  Abe pulled up a chair alongside the bed, his grin fading. Before he could answer, she saw the answer in his cobalt-blue eyes and asked again, “Have the girls been found, Abe? Joe?”

  “They’re not at the ranch, Emily,” said Hosteen. “They were nowhere on the premises, and neither was the son of a bitch who calls himself the Prophet. The Feds, state police, and all local law enforcement they can spare are looking for them.”

  Emily slumped back against the pillow, the smile gone.

  “They’ll find them, Em. There’s no way Langley’s going to get away,” Abe said.

  “And in the meantime, what’s happening to Lina and Darcy? I should have done a better job protecting those girls. I have to get out of here.” Emily pulled herself upright and reached for the nurse call button.

  Abe held her arm. “Stop it, Em. Don’t be crazy. What could you do now besides cause more harm to your leg? Think about it. There is an army of lawmen looking for those girls.”

  “Listen to the man, Emily,” Hosteen said. “He’s right. You need to sit this one out, partner. I’ll keep you up to date, but a one-legged cop can’t be much help.”

  Emily closed her eyes, defeat showing on her face. “Shit.”

  The door opened, and Will and Bertha entered the room. Bertha hurried to the other side of the bed.

  “Shichˈéˈé. My daughter,” Bertha said, patting Emily’s cheek. “Just look at you, my beautiful girl.” She turned and acknowledged Abe and Hosteen with a nod. “I heard what you were discussing. I’ll tell all of you this: when Emily leaves this hospital, she will go home with her mother. And there will be no argument,” she added, looking sternly at Emily. “We need to have a long family talk.”

  Abe took the hint. “I think I’ll find the cafeteria and get some coffee,” he said. “I’ll be back later, sweetheart.” He squeezed Will’s shoulder on his way to the door.

  “I’ll join you,” Hosteen said. “These folks need some time alone. Let your leg heal, Emily, so you can stop loafing and get back to work. Will, Mrs. Etcitty, take care of our girl.”

  Jealousy rose like green bile in Abe’s throat. Once they were in the hallway, he gave Hosteen a scornful look. “What’s this ‘our girl’ shit? Maybe your interest in Emily isn’t purely professional. Are you trying to make a move on my girlfriend?”

  “Cool it, Freeman. It’s a figure of speech. You don’t have anything to worry about—except for the fact you’re not Navajo.”

  His words stopped Abe in his tracks. He grabbed Hosteen by the shoulder and swung him around. The two men stood glowering at each other. “When we’re done, you and I need to get something settled.”

  Hosteen was a good three inches taller than Abe and outweighed him by thirty pounds.

  “Right . . . ,” he said, pushing Abe away. “Fuck that for now. I’ve got work to do. You can stay here and figure out a way home, or come along. What’s it going to be, Freeman?”

  “I’d do anything to help Emily. Let’s go.”

  “Coffee and breakfast first. If anyone is at this hideout, they’ll stay put a little longer.”

  Abe swallowed his anger, for the time being at least, and grabbed a burrito to go with a Styrofoam cup of black hospital coffee. “Ready?”

  When Abe and Hosteen left the cafeteria and turned the corner toward the elevator, Will caught up with them. “You two have something up your sleeve. I want in on it.”

  “What about Emily?” Abe said.

  “Mom’s staying with her. The doc told me she can be dismissed tomorrow if her vitals are good. It was a clean break, so there should be no complications. Keeping her from being too active will be the hard part. Knowing my sis, she’ll want to jump right back into work. So what’s up? Why’d you two leave in such a hurry?”

  “I got a tip about a place here in Albuquerque where the two fugitives might be hiding. I’m supposed to be off duty, but I want to follow up on it.”

  “And Abe?” Will said.

  “I’m coming along for backup, in case Hosteen needs help,” Abe said.

  “I’m going with you,” Will said. “I’ll tell Mom I’m riding back with you two after we take care of some business.”

  Will returned a couple of minutes later. He grinned. “Mom and Emily gave me ‘the look’ but didn’t ask questions. So, where is this hideout?”

  Hosteen walked toward the hospital exit, Will and Abe following closely on his heels. “On a side street between Wyoming and Eubank. A tough neighborhood with a lot of gang activity, slumlords, boarded-up businesses. I can’t figure out why Langley would want a place in such a rough neighborhood.”

  “Maybe he wanted to impress on the kid how terrible the rest of the world was. If he didn’t straighten up, that’s where he’d end up. The kid probably didn’t know any other life than that compound,” Abe said. He opted for the small backseat of Hosteen’s Silverado, granting Will the extra legroom in front. Hosteen took a handgun out of his glove compartment and handed it to Abe. Then he retrieved a shoulder holster containing his Glock from under the seat and put it on.

  “You’ll have to be unarmed, Will—unless Abe wants to give you his weapon.”

  Although he disliked the gun, Abe would rather carry it than give it up and look like a wuss. He checked out the Beretta 92G, found the safety, opened the chamber, and saw that, except for the firing chamber, it was loaded. He made sure the safety was on and stared straight ahead, adrenaline pumping through his veins like an oil gusher.

  Albuquerque was a big city with a small-town attitude. Adobe structures contrasted with modern shopping malls. The old blended with the new, the run-down with the upscale. Abe was no stranger to big cities and traffic, having come out West from Atlantic City, but this place had a different feel. The quaint “Duke City” boiled with vitality and unbridled testosterone.

  They turned onto Central Avenue, where groups of young men wearing hairnets or do-rags eyed them with menacing looks. They didn’t have far to go before they found the single-story apartment complex with scantily clad girls and homeless men standing out front. The name on the billboard, with two letters missing, read THE CRO ST WN. A quicky-loan building bordered one side of the cheap pink building, and there was a pawnshop on the other. Panhandlers squatted in front of a fast-food joint across the street.

  “You sure this is the place?” said Abe. “It’s a skid-row dump.”

&nb
sp; “But it’s cheap and off anyone’s radar,” said Hosteen. “Who’d ever think of looking for fugitive religious cult members here?”

  “You got an apartment number?” said Will.

  “Not yet, but I’ve got mug shots of those two dickheads. I’ll find the manager and see if he recognizes them.”

  A sign in a window near the front read REASONABLE RATES: MONTHLY, WEEKLY, DAILY, OR HOURLY.

  “Wait for me here, and keep an eye out for anyone coming or going,” Hosteen said as he lumbered toward the office.

  32

  Tuesday, April 17

  Crosstown Apartments

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  The manager, unshaven and exposing a slice of bare belly where the bottom of his dirty T-shirt fell shy of the top of his pants, stood in the office door pointing toward a unit near the back.

  “Number eleven,” Hosteen said when he returned to the truck. “It’s a studio apartment with a kitchenette and front and back exit. The guy wasn’t going to tell me anything, so I flashed my badge and threatened to call the vice squad and have him arrested for pimping a whorehouse. When I showed him the mug shots of the suspects, he verified it’s Harris and Mackey, though they used false names and driver’s licenses. The manager said they checked in last Saturday. They must have made a run for it when they found out Emily escaped.”

  Will stared at the apartment, his eyes as hard and cold as ball bearings. “Are they in there now?”

  “Came in late last night with two women, and the manager hasn’t seen anyone leave.”

  Abe felt his adrenaline kick in, his heart pounding in his chest. “What are we waiting for? The girls could be in there with those men.”

  “There’s no hurry now,” said Hosteen. “Here’s what I want. Abe, go around to the back. Keep the door covered, in case they make a run for it. If they do, have your weapon ready, but don’t shoot unless you’re threatened. I don’t know if they’re armed, but my guess is probably. Will, come with me to the front, but stay off to the side until we know what we’re dealing with. Abe, I’ll give you time to get around there before I rush the front.”

  The two men nodded. Abe pulled the Beretta out of his pocket and scooted to the back of the building. Once there, he found himself in an alley full of dumpsters, weeds, and garbage. Five separate doors faced the alley.

  Shit, which one is number eleven? he wondered before recalling it sat dead center in the back line of apartments.

  He crept up to the middle door and pressed his back against it, took a deep breath, and waited for the ruckus.

  A few minutes later, a loud banging came from the other side of the room, and Hosteen’s muted shout, “Open up. Police.”

  He heard the sound of scrambling bodies, the crashing of furniture, a woman’s scream, and the slam of the front door as it was forced open and banged against the wall. A gunshot rang out, more shouts, a scuffle. Abe thought, The hell with this gun!

  He jammed the Beretta in his pants at the small of his back. He had taken up boxing as a teenager to defend himself against bullies in his neighborhood and had won a couple of lightweight Golden Gloves titles. What mattered was speed, catching your opponent off guard, and the element of surprise. Abe waited for the door to open, not sure who would be behind it. He placed himself against the side of the wall so he would be hidden when it opened.

  The moonfaced, balding Midwesterner stuck his head out and scanned the alley. He looked slack-jawed and hungover. A revolver dangled from his right hand. As soon as he stepped out, Abe shoved on the door, slamming it into the left side of Mackey’s head. An uppercut caught the stunned fugitive squarely under the chin, and a quick one-two punch to the solar plexus finished him off. Mackey, soft as a marshmallow, dropped his weapon and collapsed in a heap. Abe picked up the abandoned gun and pointed it at him.

  “Get to your feet, asshole, and put both hands behind your head.”

  “I’m hurt,” Mackey whined, holding his chin. “You broke my jaw.”

  “Shut up,” said Abe. “Hosteen? Will?” he shouted. “What’s happening? Are the girls in there?”

  “It’s under control,” Will answered. “No sign of the girls here. There were a couple of prostitutes in the room, though. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m bringing Mackey in. Where’s Hosteen?”

  “Right here beside me. Harris threw a lamp at him when Joe busted through the door, and his gun went off. The women grabbed their clothes and ran outside half-naked. I’m sitting on this skinny little shit until Hosteen’s ready to cuff him.”

  “Get in there,” Abe said to Mackey, prodding him with the gun this time. “Hey, Joe. I’ve got another present for you.” Mackey, his hands behind his head, stumbled into the room.

  Hosteen had a sheepish grin on his face. He dabbed a handkerchief at a small stream of blood trickling from a goose egg–size bump on his forehead. “Second time in two days I’ve had my head in the wrong place. Must be losing my touch.”

  Satisfied there wasn’t much blood, he pulled a pair of PlastiCuffs from a pocket and fastened them to each of the perps’ wrists.

  Mackey let out a yelp. “He tried to kill me. Watch it.”

  “You’re not even bleeding, you pussy,” said Hosteen.

  “Can you make an arrest here in Albuquerque, Joe? Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction? Maybe we need to call the locals.”

  “That’s right,” said Harris. “You got no right to do this. You broke into our place.”

  Hosteen smirked. “There’s a couple of exceptions to the rule of territorial jurisdiction. One is when in ‘fresh pursuit’ of a suspect who committed a crime within their territory, and the other is a ‘citizen’s arrest.’ Since one of you assholes assaulted an officer, and the other pulled a gun on a citizen, an arrest is warranted. I could add that a felony was committed in my jurisdiction, and I am pursuing your sorry asses. I’ll make a phone call to my boss just to be sure this arrest sticks—after I read you your rights.”

  When Hosteen finished reading the fugitives the Miranda Warning, Will jerked Harris to his feet and shook him like a dirty rag. “I know this cop said you have the right to remain silent, but just between you and me, I want to know what happened to those two young Navajo girls you kidnapped.”

  “I don’t know anything about no Navajo girls,” Harris stammered.

  Mackey kept his head down, sniveling between whimpers and rotating his jaw back and forth.

  “Where are we dumping these two sacks of shit, Joe?” said Will.

  “We’re tossing them in the back of my camper and taking them all the way to Crownpoint—giving them to the Navajo Nation. I’m not dealing with the locals or the FBI. I’ll bet they’ll start talking once they’re locked up with a few Diné.”

  “I’ll ride in the back with them.” Will pulled a sharp skinning knife from a sheath attached to his belt. “Did you ever see a Navajo dress a sheep out?” he asked, smiling at Harris and Mackey. “A skilled herder can take the entire hide off a sheep in less than five minutes. Did I mention I raise sheep?” Will tested the blade’s sharpness on the tip of his thumb and chuckled.

  The accused kidnappers paled.

  “Hey, no. You can’t do this. We’ve got rights,” Harris said.

  Abe stifled a grin. He knew Will was bluffing, but those two didn’t. “Sounds like a decent plan. Let’s load them up.”

  Hosteen shoved the two men into the camper. “Stay with them, Will. Make sure they don’t make too much noise. Abe and I are going to search the room, and I need to check out the manager’s records. Try not to rough them up too much. Well, not so it’s noticeable. I don’t want blood inside my truck.”

  Still brandishing his knife, Will smiled and crawled into the camper.

  Abe and Hosteen reentered the room and rummaged through the drawers and wastebaskets. It appeared the two men had left in a hurry and not brought much with them. Hosteen confiscated two wallets with fake drivers’ licenses and credit cards, plus a set of
car keys. Abe combed through a trash container overflowing with the detritus of derelicts—crumpled fast-food wrappers, beer cans, cigarette butts, used condoms. Not the sort of things you would expect from religious fanatics. But there were no receipts or other incriminating papers. He pulled gray sheets off the sagging beds and lifted the mattresses, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell. “Doesn’t anyone ever clean these dumps?” he said. Soiled clothing and towels lay in a heap on the floor. Abe kicked the pile until it scattered. “Guess that whining piece of shit will have to keep wearing his wet pants,” he said. “Nothing decent here.”

  Hosteen finished checking the bathroom. “Let’s have a talk with the manager. See how the rent gets paid.”

  Back in the office, Hosteen tapped on a bell until the manager waddled back in. “Whadda ya want now?”

  “I want to know who pays the rent for apartment eleven,” said Hosteen.

  “I don’t know. Bill’s paid in advance. Some guy sends a check to cover the year. Different people show up with the key. Whadda I care, long as I get my money?” He scowled at Hosteen. “You didn’t shoot the room up, did you?”

  “Nah,” said Abe. “It’s in as good a shape as it was when we got here.”

  Hosteen got in the manager’s face. “Go through your files. Find a name, a canceled check, or some proof of payment.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” the manager grumbled. “I got work to do.”

  “You’ll have nothing but time, in a jail cell, if you don’t cooperate with us,” said Hosteen.

  The man huffed and walked to a metal filing cabinet. He pulled open a drawer and began rummaging through a stack of files. After several minutes, he retrieved a manila folder and opened it. “Here it is. Some guy calls himself Rupert Langley.”

  “I need to borrow this file,” said Hosteen, taking it from the man’s hands.

  “Hey!” the manager yelled. “Whadda ya think you’re doing? Them’s my business records.”

  “This is evidence in a criminal investigation. Thanks for your help,” said Hosteen. “I’ll let you know when you can have them back.”