by Dianne Emley
“Hello, Jack.”
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Bowie Crowley.” Jenkins smirked.
Crowley set his helmet on the seat and moved to stand a few feet from Jenkins. His sheathed knife was over his right thigh. “Didn’t expect to see me again, Jack? At least not vertical.”
“What brings you to our fair city, Bowie?”
“You oughta know, Jack.”
They stood with their hands slightly away from their sides, like gunslingers facing off.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Kissick checked that the truck’s radio was off before turning the key in the ignition just far enough to activate the power so he could roll down the windows a little more. The two men by the gas pumps were too focused on their own drama to notice.
“The motorcycle guy has a big knife on his belt.” Kissick grimaced as he studied the bike’s license plate number through binoculars. “I can only make out a partial number.” He jotted it down.
“I can’t hear what they’re saying. Can you?” Vining watched through her binoculars.
He shook his head as he picked up the camera to take photos. “Jenkins is not happy to see this guy. Judging from their body language, they have a history.”
They watched as the two men shifted position, circling each other.
“Wait a minute …” Vining said as Crowley’s face came into view.
“Yeah.” Kissick grabbed his copy of Razored Soul, opened the cover to the author photo, and compared that image with the man talking to Jenkins. “That answers that question. They know each other.”
Vining moved magazines and anything else blocking her exit from the truck.
Kissick did the same. He took out his cell phone and found the Sheriff’s El Centro station in the list of recently dialed calls. He got through and kept his voice low.
“This is Detective Jim Kissick with the Pasadena Police Department. I’m in Niland with Detective Nan Vining doing surveillance of Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go Market at the corner of Main Street and Highway One-Eleven. We’ve got two adult males having a heated discussion. One is Jack Jenkins, convicted felon, career criminal, and a suspect in a double homicide. He’s the son of the store’s owner. The other we’ve tentatively identified as Bowie Crowley, who did time in San Quentin for voluntary manslaughter. Crowley is wearing a knife that has about a six-inch blade. He’s got on a leather jacket so I can’t tell if he’s in possession of other weapons. Jenkins does not appear to be armed.” He gave them the partial license plate number off the motorcycle. “They’re just talking, but I’ve got a funny feeling. You got anybody at your Niland substation who could roll over here just in case something pops so we won’t blow our surveillance? Hello? Hello …”
Kissick angrily snapped the phone closed.
Vining looked at him.
“I think she said she’d send a car from El Centro, thirty-five miles away. Probably won’t need them, but …”
“Right.”
“So Scoville found the balls to come after you.” Jenkins let out a sinister laugh. “Course, you helped by screwing his wife.” He laughed louder.
As Jenkins stepped to the side, Crowley matched him, but didn’t respond.
“Is Scoville dead?”
“Scoville’s not your problem, Jack. I am.”
“That’s not news to me, Bowie. You’ve been my problem since Quentin. I should say, since you betrayed me in Quentin.”
“You’re still stuck on that, Jack? Get over it.”
“Get over it?” Jenkins’s sarcastically joking demeanor changed. His body grew rigid, as if his tendons were retracting, like a sling on a catapult. “How do you get over betrayal, Bowie? How do you get over someone who you thought was your friend making fun of you in public? All those hours. All that conversation. Opening up, telling you about my life. My secrets. Then I find out that you didn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
“I was your friend.”
“Bullshit!” Jenkins began shouting. “You pretended you were cool with my lifestyle just so you could pick my brain about it. You know what the Brotherhood did to me. I took twenty-eight stitches, man. All because of you.”
“I am cool with your lifestyle.”
“You called me a freak.”
“A character in my story called the protagonist a freak, not me. That’s not my opinion.”
Vining and Kissick could hear the two men now that they’d raised their voices.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“So far, they’re just talking. I hate blowing our cover. We found Jenkins, and we’re going to take him down. I don’t want him going across the border and disappearing.” He looked at his watch. “Even if the sheriffs sent a car, who knows when they’ll get here. I’ll try to get through again and tell them it’s a code three.”
“On the other hand, if Jenkins does something that causes us to arrest him, he’ll be safely locked up while we continue our investigation.”
“There’s that.”
Vining pulled her shield from her belt and clipped it onto her shirt pocket. Kissick displayed his as well.
Crowley and Jenkins paced in front of the gas pumps turning like spokes on a wheel, keeping the same distance between them.
“Jack, I’ll admit my story was inspired by some of the things you told me, but it’s fiction. The main character couldn’t be more different from you.”
“Yeah, as different as a cross-dressing criminal with a hard-assed mother can be.” Jenkins snickered.
Jenkins and Crowley stared at each other, their pacing and positioning over.
“Jack, you not only tried to kill me yourself, you sent some guy to try to kill me. You’d leave my son without a father all because of a story I wrote.”
Jenkins made a face as if he didn’t get Crowley’s point.
Crowley clenched and opened his fists, as if wrestling with his impulses. “Okay, look … my actions harmed you, even though I didn’t do it intentionally. For that, Jack, I’m sorry. Will you accept my apology?” He wiped his hand against his jeans, then held out his palm. “I’m willing to forget the whole thing. Can we put it behind us?”
Jenkins stared at Crowley’s hand and laughed. His laughter grew, riding a wave. He slapped his knee and doubled over, holding his ribs. He then bowed his back and laughed at the whitening sky.
Crowley let his hand drop and sucked in his cheeks.
“Put it behind us, he says.” Howling with laughter, Jenkins staggered, heading toward the front door of the mini-mart. “Let bygones be bygones.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Sure, Bowie.” When he was within striking distance of an old wooden pickle barrel, he lunged for it, tossing aside the lid and grabbing an AK-47 assault rifle. By the time he had the gun in his hands and had spun around, Crowley had snatched his knife and was holding it ready to throw.
“Police! Drop your weapons!” Kissick and Vining burst from the truck’s passenger door and crouched behind the engine block, the most solid barrier the truck provided.
“Drop your weapons now or someone’s going to get hurt,” Vining commanded.
If the two men were surprised that the police were there, they didn’t show it.
“Drop it, Jack,” Crowley said. “I’ll drop mine.”
“You’re a riot,” Jenkins retorted.
Kissick yelled, “On the count of three, your weapons need to be on the ground and your hands behind your heads. One, two—”
The world exploded and Crowley was thrown backward off his feet before hitting the ground.
Jenkins ran for Crowley’s motorcycle, haphazardly firing a stream of bullets toward the detectives.
Vining and Kissick maintained their cover and returned Jenkins’s gunfire.
He revved the motorcycle’s engine and headed toward the mountains, the AK-47 slung across his back by a strap.
Vining and Kissick got off a few rounds, but he didn’t stop.
Crowley moaned and bled on the asphalt as Connie Je
nkins, carrying the shotgun with which she’d shot him, ran inside the mini-mart and locked the door.
They looked at each other, at Crowley writhing, at Jenkins getting away, and at the mini-mart, where Connie was holed up.
Kissick tried to call 911 on his cell phone, looking as if he was about to throw the device as far as he could.
Vining darted back inside the truck and cranked the ignition. Kissick barely managed to get inside before she burned rubber as she turned around. She came to a screeching halt in front of the telephone booth. Using the truck as a shield, Kissick got out and called for assistance while Vining assumed a firing position behind the engine block, aiming at the mini-mart. She chewed her lip at the sight of Crowley bleeding and in pain but she couldn’t do anything to help him without endangering herself.
As Kissick called for help, they were surprised to hear sirens in the distance. Two Imperial County Sheriffs’ SUVs sped on scene, followed by paramedics.
Kissick and Vining held up their shields.
The deputies pulled their vehicles close to the truck, creating a barrier, and took position.
Kissick explained what had gone on to the field sergeant.
The paramedics remained in their van across the street, waiting for word that it was safe for them to move in and do their work.
Crowley became listless. He slowly dragged his arm across the asphalt and over his face to block the sun.
A bell tinkled when the mini-mart’s screen door opened. A white cloth jerkily waved through the opening.
“Don’t shoot,” Connie said in a raspy voice. “Don’t shoot me.”
A chorus of commands went up. “Come out with your hands—”
“Put your hands—”
“Walk out—”
The shotgun hit the ground when Connie tossed it out. She moved quickly, as if she’d been shoved, crossing the porch and walking into the clearing by the gas pumps with her hands in the air. “I called the police. I didn’t want him to hurt my boy.”
Once she had cleared the building, deputies swarmed her, roughly forcing her facedown on the ground, twisting her arms behind her, and snapping on handcuffs.
The paramedics moved in but Vining and Kissick got to Crowley first.
“Are you Bowie Crowley?” Kissick asked.
He was struggling to breathe but lucid. Grimacing, he rasped, “Yes.”
Vining crouched beside him. She saw that buckshot had peppered his torso. “What are you doing here? What’s your business with Jack Jenkins?”
“Officers, could you please …?” The EMTs were trying to do their work.
Crowley managed to croak, “Old business.”
As the deputies walked Connie past in handcuffs, she kicked loose pebbles in Crowley’s direction, hitting Vining as well.
“Hey! Cool it, Grandma,” Vining snapped.
Connie muttered, “Asshole,” as they hauled her off.
Vining persisted, leaning closer to Crowley. “Do you know who murdered Oliver Mercer and Lauren Richards?”
“Officer, please.” An EMT forced himself between Crowley and Vining. “You can talk to him later.”
Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed as he passed out.
Vining straightened to see one of the sheriffs’ vehicles peel out and head toward the mountains. She ran toward the truck as Kissick turned it around, the tires skidding.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Going at high speed through the small town, they quickly reached a crossroads. Kissick rolled down his window to confer with the deputies. They would take off in opposite directions, the deputies going left and Kissick and Vining to the right.
Kissick gave them his cell phone number. “But the reception is flaky.”
One of the deputies looked at his own cell phone. “Shows good reception here. We’ve got more units en route and we’ve requested a helicopter. We’ll get your bad guy.”
They parted.
Before long, Vining and Kissick seemed to leave the desert behind, passing expansive fields planted with bell peppers and alfalfa. Cows grazed. Sprinklers released great fans of water.
They drove with the windows down but did not hear the big motorcycle’s engine.
Vining ran her hand over her sweaty face. “Jenkins is gone. He knows these roads. We’ll never find him.”
“I need some water.”
Vining grabbed the liter bottle and opened it for him.
They passed a group of men at the side of the road unloading hay from a truck.
“Stop,” Vining said. “Let’s ask those guys if they saw anything.”
Kissick threw the truck into reverse and backed up to where the men were working. Vining rolled down the window and called out to them. She did not identify herself.
They didn’t know much English. Vining and Kissick had a rudimentary command of Spanish. Between them, they managed to communicate. Minutes ago, the men had seen a big motorcycle traveling at high speed. They’d swerved to avoid it when exiting a side road as the cyclist turned onto it.
Kissick again took off, making a sharp left onto the road the farmworkers had indicated, a gravel ribbon cutting across the fields, stretching for miles. They bounced along the uneven road at high speed. Bales of hay piled twelve feet high were stacked along the sides, periodically blocking their view.
Vining struggled to hold her binoculars steady. She peered at a large barn set back in a field where workers were moving equipment. The men were busy finishing the day’s labor before the sun turned brutal.
“Something in the road up ahead,” Kissick said, not decreasing his speed as they closed in on the obstruction.
In the distance, Vining zeroed in on a flatbed truck loaded with hay that was partially blocking the road. Men were gathered around. Dozens of bales of hay had spilled onto the ground.
Her view was obliterated when the road disappeared behind a low rise. When they surfaced, they saw men hoisting a fallen motorcycle. In the middle of the dungaree-clad Latino farmworkers, Jenkins stood out with his platinum hair, sparkly striped shirt, and white pants. He was bent over, his hand braced against the truck as he examined his leg.
Through the binoculars, Vining could see blood on his pants. “Jenkins took a tumble.”
Kissick stepped on the accelerator. Vining nearly dropped the binoculars when he hit an incline and landed heavily. When she again got Jenkins in view, he was already astride the bike, scattering the farmworkers as he took off.
Kissick laid on the truck’s horn as he bore down on the scene. Men dove out of the way as he steered the truck in a broad arc around the activity, cutting across rows of bell peppers. The ripe orbs crunched crisply beneath the tires, filling the air with a sharp, sweet aroma.
They got back onto the road in time to see Jenkins nearly topple the bike again as he made a hard left onto the frontage road that followed the Coachella Canal, which was flowing with Colorado River water.
Kissick and Vining made the turn, sending the truck rising onto the berm that bordered the canal, plowing through thick bunches of rushes and cattails.
The motorcycle kicked up gravel and dust as it stayed ahead of the truck, yet it was losing its substantial lead.
“He’s slowing down,” Kissick said with disbelief.
Vining pulled the shotgun from behind the seats as Kissick closed the distance between them and Jenkins. She racked in a shell and took aim. Jenkins surprised them by making an abrupt right onto a narrow bridge that crossed the canal. The bridge was nearly hidden by the tall marsh plants. The bike fishtailed, but Jenkins recovered and kept going.
Kissick sailed past the bridge, losing sight of Jenkins.
“Son of a bitch.” Kissick slammed on the brakes and turned around. The truck’s big tires chewed up alfalfa when he went off the road. They cleared the bridge but didn’t see Jenkins.
After traveling a hundred yards on an improved road, they left the nourishing canal water behind for the commanding desert. Jenkins was ahead of them, steerin
g the bike down a dry riverbed, heading toward the craggy Chocolate Mountains.
The rocky terrain caused the motorcycle more problems than the truck, and Kissick soon gained on Jenkins.
Vining wore a seat belt but held on to the top of the open passenger’s window with one hand and steadied the other against the dashboard. The shotgun was on the floor.
Jenkins risked glancing back at them and fired a volley over his shoulder, a mistake because he then had to swerve violently to avoid a Joshua tree. His rear wheel slid and he slashed across the sandy dirt but didn’t go down.
Bullets breezed past the truck.
Kissick got closer. Jenkins was in range. Vining again drew a bead on him with the shotgun, but her shot missed when Kissick veered to dodge a boulder. The blast reverberated through the mountains.
Jenkins climbed the side of the riverbed and headed toward a forest of boulders, where the motorcycle would have the advantage.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly between both hands, Kissick darted the truck back and forth, forced to circle narrow passages that the motorcycle slipped through. They again lost sight of Jenkins. The truck soared over a low hill and the suspension responded brutally on landing. The seat belts engaged and seized them so tightly they could barely breathe. The root beer bottles behind the seat shattered.
They hit another ridge and sailed over. The raised front end of the truck blocked their view of the ground and Kissick was powerless to steer. When the truck leveled again on the way down, Vining yelled at the sight of the fallen motorcycle directly in their path. Airborne, Kissick could do nothing until they hit the ground. The truck bounced down, rattling their teeth and landing on top of the bike. The air bags deployed. The truck and bike skidded across the sand. Kissick turned in to the skid, the tires kicking up a cloud of sand and rocks, dragging the bike. They finally landed in a small ravine. The truck listed to the left side, its tires deflated, the motorcycle beneath it. The engine stalled.
Stunned, Vining and Kissick blinked at each other.
Kissick smashed the deflating air bag. “Are you all right?”