by Mark Reps
“The coast is clear,” he shouted. “They’ve high-tailed it out of here.”
Kate joined him inside the trailer. Empty tequila and whiskey bottles, crushed beer cans, dirty dishes, fast food wrappers and cigarette butts were everywhere. Two sleeping bags were in the living room, each haphazardly heaped into a pile.
“Somebody’s been here recently. I’m sure we’ll find enough prints to ID them. Deputy Steele, get on the radio. Call the state prison up in Florence Junction. Talk to the warden. Find out who Ángel Gómez was friends with in the joint. See if you can connect him to a big white guy with missing fingers. I’ll use the two-way and have Helen call Police Chief Haugerud in Morenci to let him know what we’ve got going on here. Bring the county map from the glove compartment when you come back.”
Kate raced to the cruiser. Zeb continued his search of the trailer. As Zeb stepped on one of the sleeping bags, he felt something with his foot. Reaching in, he pulled out a notebook. Inside were pages of definite proof that they were at the right place.
Kate was back in minutes.
“What did you find out from the warden?” asked the sheriff.
“I was lucky. I got right through to him. He had heard about the robbery on the news. He knew exactly who I was asking about. Ángel Gómez ended up under the wing of Jimmie Joe Walker, a career criminal with everything but murder convictions on his rap sheet. He fits the description--six four, two hundred forty pounds, missing three fingers on his left hand. He’s got an IQ of 160, but he’s a sociopath and psychological deviant. Coincidentally, they were both on the same cell block as your brother.”
This information was news to Sheriff Hanks. He shuddered at the possibility of his miscreant brother being involved with all of this.
“According to the warden Walker abused Ángel and just about everyone else around him. He ran the cell block like a dictator when he wasn’t pumping iron and reading up on explosives and bomb making in the prison library.”
“What did the warden say Jimmie Joe had on Ángel?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Ángel’s a hard core alcoholic. Walker controlled the contraband, including booze.”
“Did Helen get anything from Chief Haugerud in Morenci?”
“Yes,” said Deputy Steele. “Helen told him what we’ve got and he told me what they’ve got.”
“What is it?”
“Someone saw two men prowling around the alley behind the credit union a little after midnight.”
“They get a look at them?” asked the sheriff.
“White male, tall, Native American or Mexican male, short. They saw them getting out of an oversized pickup truck, the kind set way up off the ground. The description of the truck matches exactly the one stolen two weeks ago in Tucson.”
“The same day the Chevy Vega was stolen,” interrupted the sheriff. “Probably the same Vega that’s been seen multiple times around these parts being driven by a young male that appeared to be either Mexican or Native.”
“Deputy Steele, where would you go?”
The sheriff scoured the notebook.
“What?”
“If you had a million bucks?” asked the sheriff. “Where would you go?”
“I suppose I would leave the country as quickly as possible,” replied Deputy Steele.
“How about if you stole a million bucks and this was your starting point? Right here at this trailer. You have a million dollars in cold, hard cash. Where would you go so no one would find you?”
Deputy Steele took no time in answering.
“Instinct would tell me to head straight for the Mexican border. But that is what the authorities would figure as well. Any criminal would have to assume the state police and federal authorities would be thinking the same thing and have that escape route covered with an APB.”
“Even young Ángel probably has that figured out,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“The second place I might think of going is north onto the reservation, at least until things cooled off a little bit. There aren’t many people up there. There is plenty of open space and more hiding places than anyone could ever get at. Everyone knows the tribal police aren’t much for cooperating with outside agencies.”
“Do you think Eskadi would work with us, help us get tribal police cooperation on this one?”
“I doubt it. I am sure he views this as the evil White man’s corporation getting what’s coming to him.”
“Even if one of the thieves was White?”
Deputy Steele could only shrug her shoulders. Sheriff Hanks understood her meaning.
“Deputy Steele, call the Border Patrol. Have them be on the alert for a twenty-one-year old Mexican, about five foot four, a hundred fifteen pounds, feminine looking, long hair, drinking problem and a white male, thirty-five to forty years of age, six foot four, two hundred forty pounds, with missing fingers on his left hand. Let them know they should be considered armed and dangerous.”
“Yes, sir.”
Deputy Steele once again raced to her vehicle and relayed the information. Sheriff Hanks walked slowly down the driveway of the trailer. He pointed to the ground as Deputy Steele joined him.
“We know they’ve got at least two vehicles,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Look at the two sets of tracks. One is oversized and the other undersized and bald on the outer edges.”
“One for each of them. They probably split up the money and headed in opposite directions,” added Deputy Steele.
“Maybe, but think about it for a second,” said Sheriff Hanks. “According to the warden, Jimmie Joe Walker is a sociopath with a genius IQ. For the last two years he has been psychologically and likely physically abusing Ángel routinely. I think I know where we might be able to find them both.”
“You’re a step ahead of me, Sheriff. Where?”
“Jimmie Joe could complete the circle of his crime by returning to Felipe Madrigal’s house. Ángel grew up there. It’s where Jimmie Joe coerced the old man to give up the floor plan of the credit union, and it’s where he got Felipe to call in the bomb threats. It would be the perfect way to further psychologically abuse Ángel,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Jimmie Joe is clever and cunning. He is also a fucked up head case. He might be taking Ángel back there to kill him. That way he would get his kicks from abusing Ángel one last time while ridding himself of the one person who could truly rat him out.”
“It would also be a way to torture the old man forever,” added Deputy Steele. “What’s the quickest route to Madrigal’s house?”
“We can head cross country on a couple of back roads and catch County 6,” said Zeb. “Ángel and Jimmie Joe might be there now.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” asked Kate.
“Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five.”
“Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
Zeb called Josh Diamond on his cell phone. The service was spotty but he got through.
“Meet Deputy Steele and me at the Madrigal place.” He filled his old border patrol pal and expert tracker in on what was going down. “Bring your dogs. We’ll need them.”
A steady southerly crosswind blew Zeb’s dust and dirt trail away from Kate’s trailing car as they headed west. At County Road 6 both vehicles turned north.
Sheriff Hanks assumed that either one or both of the suspects were going to be in the oversized vehicle heading up the old Indian Flats Mine road, with a disappearing act in mind. He had Josh Diamond bring his dogs as he was expecting they would ultimately end up tracking the criminals on foot. Sheriff Hanks’ car-to-car radio buzzed.
“Eskadi told me the tribe has done a quite a bit of work to make sure no one drives on that road,” said Deputy Steele. “The Apache don’t want anyone in there, especially us.”
“By making the road impassable, Eskadi may have inadvertently done us a favor,” said the sheriff.
At the Madrigal house Sheriff Hanks pulled over and took a rifle from the trunk. Deputy Steele pulled in behind him.
“I don’t see any signs of life,” said the sheriff.
They both knew the layout of the Madrigal place. The wind died down. A strange atmosphere permeated the homestead. Inside the house the trail became red hot.
“The blood in the sink and on the towel is fresh,” said Deputy Steele
“And so was the vomit in the ditch.”
The lawmen turned to see Josh Diamond standing in the doorway.
“Based on two fresh sets of tire tracks,” said Josh. “I’d say you got a big truck and a small car that have been here recently. Whoever was driving the small car is wearing tennis shoes. And, from the upchucked bile and blood, I’d say there is a pretty good chance he’s got an ulcer. Care to bring me up to date?”
Zeb pulled the map from his back pocket and laid it out on the kitchen table.
“The tracks head north at the end of the driveway,” said Josh. “The most likely route is County Road 6 to Indian Route 11. If they make it onto the reservation, they have a thousand places to disappear.”
“I don’t like the sounds of that,” said Zeb. “We’ve got to see to it that they don’t make it. We don’t want to lose them up there.”
“What about this old mining road that goes up to Indian Flats?” asked Josh.
“None of our vehicles are going to get far on that road,” said Zeb. “After three or four miles it’s in real tough shape. We likely will end up on foot.”
“My guess is that’s where they are going. If they took off down that road, it won’t be hard to tell. Let’s go have a look. Deputy Steele, you go with Josh. Josh, follow me.”
A broad grin swept across Josh Diamond’s face.
“Just like old times, eh, Zeb.”
The sheriff tipped his cap and hopped into his vehicle. The look on his face was dead serious.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The twenty mile trip to the old Indian Flats Mine road gave Deputy Steele time to let Josh in on her theory concerning the guns stolen from his store. In addition, she gave him the details she had on Jimmie Joe Walker and his pathological mindset. When she explained they would likely be hunting the men on foot, Josh’s demeanor became intensely focused.
“Understanding human nature is an art as well as a science,” said Josh. “Human behavior is as varied as the individual. From what you’ve told me, tracking down Jimmie Joe Walker will be like hunting a rabid coyote. Ángel will be like stalking an injured rabbit in his own territory.”
His directness about human hunting led Kate to ask the question, “How does it feel to track someone knowing you might have to shoot them?”
“My shooting days are over. After six months in Kuwait I vowed never to point a weapon at another human being,” he answered. “Working for the border patrol confirmed that decision.”
Josh’s response took Kate a bit by surprise. Her intuitive response was to check her weapon.
“I apologize for being so abrupt,” said Kate. “That was way too personal.”
“No need to apologize, Kate. It probably isn’t one of those questions that has an easy answer. I hunted people--under direct orders. In war it’s kill or be killed. You are hunting or tracking down someone who wants to kill you. Our unit had a single mission. Our job was to track down and eliminate, when possible, the commanders of the Iraqi forces who were ordering the deaths of Kuwaiti civilians.”
“I saw the picture in your office. You were playing with a yoyo, and a bunch of kids were watching you and laughing.”
Josh cleared his throat. He hesitated a moment before speaking.
“There’s a story behind that picture. It’s not one I’ve told many people.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” said Kate.
“Normally I wouldn’t, but somehow it seems like I should. It’s not really a pretty story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Kate did, and did not, want the facts. She sensed it was important but did not want to intrude too deeply into Josh’s personal life. Somewhat hesitatingly she answered yes.
“That picture was taken on what can only be described as both the best and the worst day of my life. We were operating on the Kuwait-Iraq border after hostilities had ceased. We were providing food and medical care. The Iraqi Red Guard had poisoned the only water supply the village had so we were working on drilling a new well. In return we wanted information about any locals who had been working with the Iraqis. It was a simple trade off, water for information. Most of the villagers were poor farmers. They weren’t political. They didn’t want anything to do with the war. The village leader agreed to help us if we would drill the well and build a soccer field for the kids. We did. The night before the first game operatives sneaked in and planted some land mines in the middle of the field. Four of those kids in that picture were killed when one detonated.”
“I am so sorry,” replied Kate.
Josh cleared his throat again. As he began to speak his words were raspy.
“I was in charge of security. It was my fault. I became insanely angry. I vowed to track down the men responsible and kill them. But my squad leader, God bless him, yanked me out of there. He talked with the commanding officer, and I was put on the next plane back to the states. Someone else literally saved my life. The nightmare of those children dying still haunts me. It took me years to realize that if I had killed the men who killed those kids nothing would have changed, except I would have ended up fighting even more demons.”
Josh stopped talking and looked out the window across the desert toward the western mountains. His incredible tale left Kate with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew that if she pulled the trigger on Jimmie Joe or Ángel it would be out of duty, not hatred. Still, it might boil down to just that, her pulling the trigger and ending a human life. In the heat of the moment, what would she do? Time would tell.
At the turnoff to the old mine road, Zeb pulled over. He got out of the car and crouched in the middle of the road. Two sets of tire tracks headed up the old mine road. One set was extra wide with a deep tread. The other set of tracks indicated small tires with little tread. Josh had guessed right. Zeb picked up some dirt in his hand. It was sifting through his fingers when the ringer on his cell phone buzzed loudly.
“Sheriff Hanks.”
“Zeb, Max Muñoz. Do you have a minute?”
“Not really.”
“Zeb, it’s about your brother, Noah.”
Zeb immediately felt his blood pressure rising. His fucked up brother was always inserting himself into his life at the worst possible moment.
“Did your men find him and that goddamn stolen Corvette?”
“He’s dead, Zeb, assassinated with a single shot to the head. He’s been dead for almost a week. We’ve got an eyewitness.”
Zeb’s heart squeezed tightly in his chest. The pit of his stomach sank like a stone. Noah had led a bad life, but he did not deserve to die like this.
“Who, what, how?”
“The eyewitness is one of your brother’s pals. They were going to get together after Noah delivered the Corvette to an ex-con named Jimmie Joe Walker. Walker was supposedly paying him five hundred bucks to deliver the vehicle. The witness was going to meet Noah, but he was running late. When he came on the scene, there was a big argument between Noah and Walker. He stayed hidden and watched as the two exchanged words. Without warning Walker pulled his weapon, plugged him point blank and took off in the Vette. We’ve got an APB on the car. I am so sorry.”
“We are hot on Jimmie Joe Walker’s trail as we speak. I’ll get that son of a bitch.”
“Stay cool. If you act in anger, you’re likely to make a mistake.”
“I’ll try and keep that in mind. But give it one second’s thought as though it were your brother who was murdered in cold blood. Goodbye.”
Zeb was ready, maybe even eager in the heat of the moment, to kill the man who killed his brother. His red hot anger was juxtaposed by the strange blend of anxiety and cool calmne
ss that comes with having been tested under stress.
Josh pulled his vehicle up behind Zeb’s. Josh got his dogs from the truck’s kennel. Kate stepped out of the vehicle. The look on Sheriff Hanks’ face told her something was wrong.
“What is it, Sheriff?” asked Deputy Steele.
“The Corvette. Noah stole it.”
“Did they find it?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“The theft was a consignment job for Jimmie Joe Walker. When Noah delivered it…”
Sheriff Hanks found himself choking back tears as the words he spoke made it suddenly all too real. Just as quickly he stuffed his emotions, another little trick he had learned in his hard life.
“Jimmie Joe Walker murdered him. Shot him in the head.”
Kate and Josh were stunned silent.
“You good enough to carry on, Zeb?” asked Josh. “We will understand if you can’t.”
Zeb stared ahead blankly. A hawk swooped down, grabbed a baby rabbit and broke his line of sight. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, assured.
“We’ve got a killer to find,” said Sheriff Zeb Hanks. “I’ve been on the first part of this road before. It gets pretty rough about three miles in. Are your dogs going to be okay in the back of your rig?”
“They’re pretty tough old boys,” replied Josh.
“Are they going to give us away in close quarters?” asked the sheriff.
The dogs were pawing around, snorting, whimpering and tugging against their leashes.
Josh unleashed the dogs, gave another hand signal that apparently meant “kennel up”, and like soldiers instantly obeying a command, they were back in the vehicle, fully poised, at attention and ready to go.
“Follow me,” said Sheriff Hanks.