Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  Headlights came into view on the street and slowed to enter the entrance to the narrow lane. He watched through binoculars as the car turned into Fletcher's driveway, and read the license plate. It was Kerney's police car.

  "He has arrived," he whispered in Spanish into his headset.

  "Wait for my command."

  ***

  "This is the third time today you've checked up on me, Gilbert," Fletcher said. "I'm starting to feel that I'm under house arrest." "Has everything been quiet?" Gilbert asked, following Pletcher into the kitchen.

  "I'm completely bored." Pletcher stood at the counter and poured coffee into two cups.

  "There have been no strangers at the door, no mysterious phone calls, and the only traffic in the lane has been police cars driving back and forth every hour or so." He carried the cups to the table and joined Gilbert.

  "This is all rather silly"

  "Probably," Gilbert said.

  "Then why all the fuss?"

  "Just a precaution," Gilbert answered.

  "Piffle," Fletcher said.

  "Piffle? Do you think you're Nero Wolfe?"

  Before Fletcher could answer, the sound of shattering glass from the back of the house brought Gilbert to his feet. He heard wood splintering at the front door.

  He pulled Hetcher out of his chair, put the cordless kitchen phone in Fletcher's hand, and pointed to the garage passageway.

  "Go," he ordered. "Crawl under your car and hide. Call 911, give them the address, and say a crime is in progress and an officer needs assistance. Do it now" He pushed a panicked Fetcher toward the passageway, doused the kitchen lights, and drew his weapon.

  Another cracking sound against the front door shattered the silence. He dropped into a low crouch, crept into the dining room, and killed the lights. He could feel cold air coursing along the floor from the front hallway.

  Gilbert figured there were two, maybe three people inside, converging on him. The only possible escape would be through the garage, if it wasn't covered by somebody on the outside.

  He retreated to the kitchen, removed the cups, and quietly dropped the massive table on its side. He rotated it until the top could be used as a shield, and pulled it by the legs as he inched backward to the passageway. He crouched down, took a quick glance above the barricade, and saw the hallway lights go out. He counted five seconds and took another look.

  He could see the shapes of two men in the dining room, one with his back pressed against the wall, the other bent low. Gilbert's options were limited. He could either make a stand or back off. Risking a break could put Fletcher in danger. He pulled his spare clip from the magazine holder. If he could take these two out, maybe he could protect Fletcher until help arrived.

  He fixed the position of the two men in his mind's eye and stretched out on his back with his head up and the nine-millimeter clutched in both hands between his legs. He took one deep breath and kicked hard at the table to upend it. The shooters opened up on full automatic, rounds tearing into the wall and pantry inches above Gilbert's head. He double-fired repeatedly at the two targets until his clip emptied.

  He ejected the spent magazine and loaded the spare. As he readied to pull off more rounds, he realized the shooting had stopped. He looked at the target zones; there were two downed bodies. He fanned his weapon back and forth, ready to fire again if either moved.

  Nothing happened. He slithered around, keeping the targets in sight. Then he flipped quickly onto his stomach, belly-crawled to the bodies, and checked them.

  Both were dead. He hurried into the garage and found Fletcher hiding under his car, shaking like a leaf.

  "Did you call?" he whispered.

  "Yes."

  "Stay put. Where's the remote for the garage door opener?"

  "On the visor in my car."

  "Where are your car keys?"

  "In the house."

  "Dammit."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "There may be more people outside." Gilbert climbed on the hood of Fletcher's car, popped off the light cover to the opener, and unscrewed the bulb.

  "Crawl to the front of the car and hide behind the tire. Make yourself as small as possible."

  "What can I do to help?"

  "Do you have a gun in your glove box?" Gilbert asked as he jumped off the hood of the car.

  "No, I don't own a gun."

  "Too bad." In a crouch, he worked his way around the vehicle, opened both car doors, grabbed the remote door opener, and turned off the interior light.

  "What are you doing?" Fletcher hissed.

  "Trying to buy us some time." From the driver's side with the doors open, Gilbert had a dear shot if someone stormed through the passageway door, and a good field of fire into the driveway once he opened the overhead door.

  He hoped to God only one shooter was left. He didn't have enough ammunition to take one man out and keep up a running gun battle with another.

  He steadied himself and waited.

  * * *

  Ramon slipped into the dining room and checked the bodies. "Javier and Raul are dead," he whispered into his headset.

  "The house is empty."

  "Are the targets down?" Carlos demanded.

  "No."

  "Where are they?"

  "In the garage."

  "Do you have an advantage?" Carlos asked.

  "No."

  "Can you see into the garage?"

  "No. The door is closed."

  Carlos moved down the driveway. The exterior garage door had a row of shoulder-high small windows.

  "When I tell you, put heavy fire into the garage through the door. I will do the same from outside."

  "We haven't much time," Ramon said.

  "Then we must do it quickly," Carlos replied. He stopped near the garage, pulled a night-vision viewer from the pouch at his waist, and scanned through the windows. The device could not magnify, but it did show a man's outline behind an open car door.

  "I have him," Carlos said into his headset. He kept the viewer fixed on Kerney and braced the assault rifle against his shoulder.

  "Move down the passageway. Aim high and to the right. Tell me when you're in position."

  "I'm there," Ramon whispered.

  "Fire now," Carlos said as he squeezed the trigger.

  ***

  Officer Yronne Rasmussen heard automatic-weapons fire as she rolled into the lane with the unit headlights off and the window open. She ground to a stop, hit the quick-release button to the racked shotgun, grabbed the weapon, and tumbled out of her unit. She keyed her handheld radio as she ran down the lane. "Shots fired," she said. "Officer needs assistance." She gave her location and asked for backup.

  The automatic-weapons fire continued to come from the direction of Fletcher Hartley's house. She cut across the property at an angle and stopped before she broke cover at the driveway. A man in tactical garb wearing a headset stood spraying the garage door with an AK-47.

  She chambered a round into the shotgun and dropped to a kneeling position. The distance was too great to be effective, but maybe she could draw fire away from Sergeant Martinez. She pulled off a round, and the shooter wheeled and fired back. She felt something slam into her thigh, lost her balance, and fell. She looked down at her leg in stunned surprise. Her uniform trousers had a bloody hole in them. It was a brand-new pair. When she looked up, the man was gone.

  "Get out, now," Carlos said into the headset as he ran to the back of the house. "The police are here."

  "Did we get them?" Ramon asked.

  "It's done," Carlos replied. "Meet me at the car."

  Rasmussen limped across the driveway and down the path to the front door. She could feel blood dripping down her leg. The front door was smashed and almost off the hinges. She got on her belly, cradled the shotgun in her arms, and started crawling down the dark hallway. The numbness in her leg was gone, replaced by a hot pain that made her clench her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

  A silhoue
tte entered the hallway from a side room. Rasmussen stopped crawling and aimed the shotgun.

  "Don't move."

  The figure turned toward her and the barrel of a weapon swung around. She fired once and the blast caught the man full force in the chest. She keyed her handheld radio.

  "Officer down," she mumbled. From outside she could hear sirens in the distance.

  She crawled to the body and checked it. The man was dead. She moved over the body into a dining room and switched on her flashlight. The beam caught two more bodies under the kitchen archway. She checked them both before moving into the kitchen. An overturned table, thick legs peppered with bullet holes, blocked a short passageway. At the end of the hall, a door had been virtually blown apart by heavy fire.

  Yvonne switched off the flashlight and pulled herself down the passageway.

  "Police officer," she called out.

  "In here," Fetcher said.

  "Identify yourself."

  "Fletcher Hartley."

  "Are you alone?"

  "No. Gilbert Martinez is with me. He's been shot."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I think so."

  "Are you armed?"

  "No."

  "Stay where you are. I'm coming in."

  She pulled her handgun, hobbled to the garage, and fumbled for the light switch. She searched low and saw Fletcher Hartley huddled at the front tire of a bullet riddled car. The arm of a man holding a nine-millimeter was draped over Hartley's back. She approached cautiously.

  The man was lying on his side with his face blown away. As shock from her wound kicked in. Officer Rasmussen realized the faceless dead man was Sergeant Martinez.

  ***

  Carlos finished briefing De Leon just as the jefe's airplane reached cruising altitude. The takeoff, which he hated as much as landings, had distracted Carlos and sweat trickled down his armpits. He jiggled his false teeth with a thumb and tried to remember if he'd forgotten anything in his report. De Leon sat at the desk in the private compartment of his airplane examining the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He seemed more interested in the statue than he did in the details of the firefight. Carlos waited for a reaction from De Leon as he turned the bulto in his hands and carefully inspected it. All the other stolen items had been left locked in the wine cellar of the Santa Fe house.

  Finally, De Leon spoke. "I did not think Kerney would be so easy to kill."

  "I could not determine if the old man is dead," Carlos said.

  "The police arrived too quickly. Ramon may also be alive."

  "Ramon is dead and Fletcher Hartley is alive," De Leon said as he concentrated on the intricate elements of the statue.

  The statement came as no surprise to Carlos. The jefe frequently had important information at his disposal within a very short period of time.

  "You are not dismayed?" Carlos asked.

  De Leon placed the bulto on the desktop.

  "The most important goal of killing Kerney was accomplished. The loss of the team is of no consequence. None of them can be traced to me. They were men without identities. Did you enjoy our assignment?"

  "It gave me great pleasure, patron."

  "I am glad." De Leon waved a hand in the direction of the compartment door.

  "You are sweating heavily, Carlos. This fear you have of flying makes your smell intolerable. Go have a drink, relax, and ask Our Lady of Guadalupe to carry you safely home."

  Carlos nodded apologetically and left.

  Enrique turned his attention back to the wooden statue. It was beautifully fashioned and wore an elaborate blue-colored robe. A gesso over the wood smoothed out the figure, and tempera paints created a creamy flesh tone to the face and hands. The woodcarver had added arched eyebrows and wide, staring eyes. The circular base contained a filigree of delicate flowers and stems.

  The unknown New Mexico artist had followed the Spanish tradition of Grafting an esplendor--a rayed nimbus of gold prongs--around her head, which made the statue exceedingly rare.

  De Leon estimated the piece to be three hundred years old. A treasure, he thought. It would add much to the chapel at his hacienda.

  ***

  Fletcher's studio was the only room in the house not overflowing with cops, medical examiners, and crime scene technicians. He sat in a paint-splattered armchair in front of an easel that held an unfinished painting of fluttering magpies alighting on a tree branch. He had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a drained, empty expression. Kerney stood by quietly.

  "Did you see Gilbert?" Fletcher finally said.

  "Yes."

  "His face is gone." Fletcher shuddered slightly at the thought.

  "Yes."

  "Who will tell his parents?"

  "It will be taken care of."

  "He has a wife. Do you know her?"

  "No," Kerney answered. "I don't."

  "And children. Two girls."

  "I know."

  "I have his blood all over me. Why did this happen, Kevin?"

  "Because of my stupidity."

  A plainclothes officer holding a notebook knocked at the studio door and stepped inside.

  "What is it?" Kerney asked.

  "The police chaplain wants to know if Mr. Hartley would like to see him." He smiled sympathetically in Fletcher's direction.

  Fletcher shook his head.

  "Send him away," Kerney said.

  "I need to take Mr. Hartley's statement," the officer added.

  "Do it tomorrow," Kerney replied.

  The officer nodded, turned on his heel, and retreated.

  "I can't stay here tonight," Fletcher said.

  "We'll find you a place."

  "No need. I'll make arrangements with friends. Someone will take me in. Why do you blame yourself for Gilbert's death?"

  "Because the men who came here wanted to kill me, not Gilbert."

  "I don't understand."

  "I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you ready to go. You need to clean up and change your clothes."

  Fletcher nodded sluggishly, got to his feet, and tried to pull himself together. An expression of self-loathing crossed his face. He looked at Kerney and shook his head as color rose on his cheeks.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I started worrying about the mess that needed to be cleaned up. Isn't that crass of me?"

  "Not at all."

  "I think it is."

  Kerney stayed with Fletcher until the body in the hallway had been removed, and Fletcher could get to his bedroom without distraction. Fletcher made telephone arrangements to stay with a friend, picked out some fresh clothes from the closet, placed them under his arm, and walked toward the bathroom. He paused at the door.

  "I may stay away for a while," he said.

  "There will be officers posted here round-the-clock, while you are gone and after you return."

  "Thank you."

  In the hallway, near a pool of blood on the floor under the shattered frames of the Peter Hurd lithographs hanging on the wall that had been damaged by Rasmussen's shotgun blast, Kerney corralled an officer. He asked the uniform to keep Fletcher sequestered and get him quietly out of the house without fanfare.

  "Wait until the reporters are gone," he added.

  Crime scene tape blocked Kerney's passage into the dining room. A technician working near the bodies by the kitchen archway bagged and tagged spent shell casings and empty ammunition dips. Blood stained the carpet and walls near the bodies. A photographer took pictures of the corpses.

  Kerney could see into the kitchen. Bullet holes riddled the pantry next to the passageway, and the garage door had taken sustained heavy fire. Outgunned and outnumbered, Gilbert had put up one hell of a fight.

  Outside, the driveway had been cordoned off and the garage door was open. Portable gas-operated klieg lights washed away the night. Officers and technicians swept the grounds, searching for additional evidence.

  Inside the garage, Fletcher's car looked as though it had been attacked by a
heavy-weapons squad. The windows were shattered and dozens of bullet holes pierced the vehicle. A storage shelf had been strafed, and paint and solvent from demolished cans dripped onto the bloodstain on the concrete pad.

  Gilbert's body had been moved to an ambulance. Kerney looked inside the open doors. The body bag was zipped shut. Without thinking, Kerney reached in and gently touched Gilbert's leg. He pushed away the thought that he was the one who needed some consolation, not Gilbert.

  At the entrance to the lane, television crews stood in a semicircle around Andy, their camera-mounted lights raw beacons in the night.

  Kerney checked by radio with the hospital on Officer Rasmussen's condition while he waited for Andy to finish with the media. An ER nurse reported that Rasmussen required surgery, but a full recovery was expected. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise terrible night.

  The camera lights went dark and Kerney spotted Andy coming down the lane toward the house. He met him halfway.

  "Thank God, that's over," Andy said.

  "Do you want me to notify Gilbert's wife?" Kerney asked.

  Andy paused momentarily. "I'll do it. Do you know what pisses me off, Kerney?"

  "What's that?"

  "I don't even know her name. What does that tell you?"

  "I don't know her name, either."

  "That makes us both shitheads. Will you be able to tie the hit men to De Leon."

  "I don't think De Leon is that sloppy. But I'll find a way to get to him."

  "Squeeze Bucky Watson," Andy said.

  "I plan to, just as soon as I get all my ducks lined up."

  ***

  Agent Joe Valdez sat in the conference room and watched Kerney read through the file on Matador Properties. Kerney had called Joe at home and pulled him back to the office without explanation. He had heard about Gilbert's murder from the radio traffic on his drive to headquarters, and the news had stunned him into an angry silence. His silence didn't matter; Chief Kerney wasn't asking any questions or talking. He had his elbows on the table, fingers at his temples, head