ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  "I hope you're okay with this," Barnard said. "It was Rick's idea. He had it all arranged by the time he told me. "

  "I won't know if it's okay until I know what it is."

  "First, let me tell you what we've learned since last night. The dead grower was Manuel Ortega, just as we thought. He was shot at close range with a Glock G21 loaded with .40 caliber bullets. The lab confirmed the blood in that blood pool is human, all from the same person. They found fingerprints on the Henry rifle. Some of them belonged to Manuel, some belonged to a person not in our data base."

  "Nothing we didn't already suspect."

  "True enough. They're running more tests. They'll search wider for the prints, and they'll check DNA and search hospital records for the blood. But all that will take a while."

  "Okay. Got it. But you haven't answered my question. Why me?"

  "I think it best if Rick Malden answered that. He said he'd drop by the hotel to see you first thing this morning. I'll give you time to get caught up, get back to you later."

  Zack finished his coffee, felt his stomach growl. He had just ordered a muffin when he saw Malden at the patio doorway. Zack waved.

  Malden saw him, came over. "Mind if I join you?"

  Zack waved at the empty chair. "I've just ordered up a muffin but I could do with breakfast. You eaten yet?"

  "Just coffee."

  Zack signaled the waitress. "Barnard tells me you're the one made me miss my flight."

  Malden looked sheepish. His official Forest Service shirt was tucked into worn jeans. Now in the morning sun Zack noticed long black hair curled at the ears, pale green eyes with white crow's feet etched into sun-darkened skin.

  "Guilty as charged," Malden said. "But since you're here, I take it you're okay with it."

  Zack gave a dry grin. "There's not a lot of choice when your boss calls to suggest it. As it happens, I've not got much else on my plate."

  The waitress came to the table. After the men gave their breakfast orders, Zack said, "I am curious. This case has a puzzle or two, but nothing a good tracker can't resolve. Why me?"

  Malden leaned back in his chair. "I'm a pretty good tracker myself, but judging from last night you're even better. Between us, I think we can get the job done. But there's another way you can help me, and that's the real reason I asked to borrow you. We need to work closely with the indigenous population."

  Zack raised his eyebrows. "Indians?"

  "Indians. Chumash tribe." Malden reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small map. "Let me show you."

  He spread the map out on the table between them and slid his chair around. He plunked a long finger down. "Here we are in Santa Maria near the mouth of the Santa Maria River." He slid his finger south. "Here is Santa Ynez along the Santa Ynez River. Right there is the Chumash Indian Reservation and Casino." His finger moved again. "Over here is where we found the dead grower last night." His finger shifted and landed with authority. "Right here is Zaca Lake. This whole area is important to the Chumash, you might even say sacred."

  Zack looked closely at the map. "Is this reservation land?"

  "No, they don't own it. The Chumash knuckled under to the Spanish centuries ago and lost everything. This tiny reservation is all they have now."

  The waitress arrived with their food. Malden folded the map up and slid his chair back. The men waited while the girl put down their plates, poured their coffee, and hurried away again.

  "That's the only reservation they have," Malden said, picking up where he left off, "but that's not all the land they own. Their casino has made all the difference. They now have more power and influence in the Santa Ynez Valley than just about anybody, and that includes a whole lot of celebrities and nationally known politicians. So when the Chumash tell us an area is sacred to their tribe, even if it's on National Forest land, we listen."

  Zack was puzzled. "You want me to help deal with the Chumash? Just because I work with other Indians?"

  "Well, yes, in fact, that's a big part of it. It's not all of it, though." Malden took a deep breath and leaned in toward Zack. "It's not just that the ground is sacred to them, it's more than that. How shall I put it? They believe there are...spirits in there, the spirits of their forefathers. They think there's something else in there too, something...well, mythical." Malden sat back in his chair, watched Zack's face. "Your reputation precedes you. You are known to accommodate the beliefs and superstitions of the Navajo. Not many FBI agents are that open minded. That's why I want you." He smiled at Zack. "You okay with this?"

  "Where do we start?" Zack said.

  Malden chuckled. "I hoped that would be your answer. After we finish our breakfast, we'll meet some Chumash."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jesus dreamed strange dreams. In these dreams he was unable to move, his body would not respond to his will. Beyond his vision were two men, low voices. They spoke English, one with a heavy Spanish accent. They played a game, a game in which they drew cards for Jesus’ life. He didn't know how he knew this. Jesus strained to understand their conversation, but could not. He was very frightened.

  When Jesus awakened, it was almost noon. He was wrapped in a sleeping bag, fully clothed but for shoes. It was unbearably hot, the bag wet with sweat. Jesus peeled it back, sat up, and stared at the interior of a wickiup. It was constructed of bent saplings bundled together with something like fishing line. There was an empty sleeping bag beside him, a jumble of paperback books at the head, a headlamp dangling from the low ceiling. Dirty socks emerged from a cloth bag. At the hut entrance he saw a tiny gas stove and fuel bottle on a wooden crate that served as a cupboard for food and supplies.

  Blinding sunlight poured in the door but it was cool in the shelter. Jesus swung his legs around to put on his shoes. The pain from his leg screamed at him. He pulled up the loose leg of his pants; his knee was swollen twice its size. This is not good, he thought. I will be useless today.

  A shadow fell over the entrance.

  "So. You are awake."

  It was Javier's voice, the man from last night, the man from his dream.

  "I thought you might sleep the entire day." Javier's head appeared in the hut. His smile went away when he saw Jesus's knee. "Oh no, amigo, you will not work today."

  "I can walk with a stick as a cane," Jesus said.

  "No. It would be silly to make your injury worse. Better that you rest your leg today. We'll see about it tomorrow." Javier crawled into the shelter. "Let me help you with your shoes. I'll take you to a place where you can watch over the plants. You will be useful, but you won't need to move."

  It was painful to put on his shoes, despite Javier's help. Yet somehow, with most of his weight on Javier, Jesus managed to crawl out of the tent. He stumbled up the slope to a place Javier selected. From there, seated, he could see the entirety of the marijuana crop. The plants were nearly two feet in height, about the same as the chaparral that intermingled with them and hid them from the air.

  It was quite comfortable in the shade. Javier returned with something wrapped in leaves. "These are tortillas with pork I made for breakfast." He handed one to Jesus. "Here is a water bottle." Javier pointed down the slope. "Just below our wickiup there is a small spring. We use that to irrigate the plants and to drink. When you can walk, I will show you how it is done."

  Jesus was grateful for the food. The pork in the tortilla was cold but tasted wonderful. The water was refreshing, despite an acidic taste––the sun was hot, Jesus's throat was dry.

  Javier lowered himself next to Jesus. "I will give you instructions while you eat." He waved his arm. "Before you is a moat, or as they say, a grow; a marijuana growing operation. It belongs to the Sonora Cartel. Marijuana growing is against the law in America. This crop is a threat to other cartels. They may try to take it from us or destroy it if they can. We must always work in silence, stay hidden as we move about, never give evidence of our presence by smoke or light reflections." Javier looked at Jesus' hands. "You must put t
ape over your wedding ring. If you have other jewelry, remove it." He put a sympathetic hand on Jesus' shoulder. "What I say is important. Your life may depend upon it."

  Jesus nodded, his mouth full of tortilla.

  "These plants are four months old," Javier said. "Soon they will reach the pre-flower stage. Until then they need lots of sun, water, and food. The soil nutrients that we use are in bags stacked behind the wickiup. There is a scoop and a bucket. We dig out soil around each plant, deposit a cup or so of food, then cover it over again. After that, we add water. Every two days we feed the plants. We water them every night. Down at the spring there is a hand pump connected to the irrigation pipes buried just beneath the soil. You pump it until there is dampness around the farthest plant. Simple."

  Jesus nodded again.

  "At the pre-flower stage, the plants will stop growing tall and begin to grow more branches. Nodes will appear where the branches meet, like tomato plants. As the plant fills out the male plant grows little grapelike clusters, the female develops white pistils, little hairs coming out of a pod. The plants will fill out even more and their flowers will grow. This will take one or two months. Then the male sacks burst"––Javier lifted his hands and spread them apart to demonstrate––"spread their pollen to the female flowers, which then produce seeds. In another two or three weeks the seeds mature within the female bud, maybe change color, the pod bursts, and the seeds drop to the ground." Javier indicated the plants before them. "That is the life cycle of the marijuana plant. You will not be here that long, however. Your shift will end and you will return to Señor Reyes's Ranch."

  Jesus looked at the plants with wonder. "Does Señor Reyes know about this?"

  Javier laughed. "Madre de Dios, no, no, no, no. He must never know. You must not tell a single person."

  "What is my job when not watering or feeding the plants?"

  "You guard them. All of our work will happen at night. During the day you sleep, watch, listen." Javier looked at Jesus. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

  Jesus glanced at the holstered gun secured to Javier's waist. "I have never used one."

  "It is simple. I will explain it to you. The gun is our last resort, to save ourselves. Silence is our safety. This crop cannot be seen, not even from the air. The rangers and the other cartels look for it. But they cannot find it unless you give it away."

  Jesus remembered the trip up the mountain. "What about mountain lions?"

  "The bears, lions, they will not bother you. They may pass by at night, but they will leave you alone."

  They sat in silence, while Jesus absorbed it all. "What happened to Manuel?" he asked after a time.

  Javier looked at him in surprise. "What do you know of Manuel?"

  "I wear his clothes because he did not return."

  Javier looked away, stared out over the trees across the canyon. He sighed. "Manuel was not careful. He gave himself away."

  Jesus stared at Javier. "They killed him."

  Javier nodded.

  Fear caught hold of Jesus. The danger seemed real now; he was in the middle of a deadly war. He had accepted there would be danger from the sea, he knew the American police might catch him; he had steeled himself for a long absence from his family. But this was real physical danger. He had not bargained for this. "How long until I am relieved?"

  "Not long. But don't worry; it is not so bad. Soon your caution will become habit and your worst enemy will be boredom." Javier laughed. "There are many books to read. Can you read?"

  Jesus nodded.

  "That is good. This is a beautiful place. Pretend you are a tourist in a lovely park." Javier smiled. "And think about your extra pay."

  Jesus looked up quickly. "Extra pay?"

  "Oh, yes. You will be paid handsomely for the danger you face."

  That is well, then, Jesus thought.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Zack gave his teeth a quick brush, threw a daypack together, went down to the lobby to meet Rick.

  Malden was stretched out in one of the chairs that lined the porch-like entrance of the Inn. He stood when Zack approached. "I've always liked this place. It's refined yet rustic at the same time." He grinned at Zack. "There's reputed to be ghosts here, you know."

  Zack chuckled. "One set of spirits at a time. Where're we going?"

  "Over to the Reservation. There's someone I'd like you to meet." Malden led the way to his official forest service pickup, a 2008 Chevrolet Silverado 1500. The logo on the door read Los Padres National Forest. Malden waved Zack into the passenger side. A long wet nose on a large chocolate-brown face prodded Zack from the rear of the extended cab when he climbed in.

  "Down, Toker," Rick said, as he climbed into the driver's seat. "I hope you don't mind dogs. This is Toker, my best friend. He's a weed sniffer––that's his job, anyway. But mostly he's my companion." Rick stroked the big dog's head. "We've logged a lot of back wood miles together, haven't we, boy?"

  Zack let Toker sniff his hand. "He might smell Blue, my bloodhound. Best tracker dog you ever saw. My wife trains them." Zack stroked Toker behind the ear.

  The truck pulled smoothly out into the traffic.

  Zack looked down at the four-wheel drive shifter. "You go off the beaten path a lot, I imagine," he said.

  "I do. I'm probably off pavement more than I’m on it. This old girl's got a 5.3-liter V8 with an automatic four-speed overdrive, so we do just fine on the highway as well. It's a comfortable truck." He looked at Zack, eyes somber. "Which is a good thing, 'cause I’m in it all day long."

  When they reached the 101 they took the ramp south. Noise barriers and the backsides of buildings rolled by on one side, fields stretched out into the distance on the other. Eventually the highway bent east. They climbed into yellow grass hills where dark blotches of cattle grazed. Vineyards cloaked south-facing slopes.

  Zack was entranced. "Green valleys, steep mountains, rolling hills," he said. "You've got it all out here."

  "There's more." Malden grinned. "Drive west a short ways and you'll come to ocean cliffs and sand dunes. I think some of the scenery we see today might surprise you." He pointed out prominent landmarks they passed––Solomon Peak, the beautiful hidden valley of Los Alamos, the vineyards of the Zaca River Valley, the transverse Santa Ynez Mountain range.

  They turned off on route 246 and drove east past a flurry of fast food stores and strip malls. Then came an ostrich farm followed by a long tunnel of trees and horse pastures. They rounded a corner and abruptly faced a building with a thatched roof. Next to it was a windmill, complete with domed top and large blades, a Danish flag flying in front. Zack gazed in wonder. They might have entered a town in Denmark.

  Malden watched Zack's face and chuckled. "Thought this might surprise you. We're in Solvang, home to a transplanted colony of Danes. They moved out here in the early 20th century and built the town. As the tourist industry grew, they added the building facades, just like in the old country. Make no mistake––it's a genuine Danish town. Most speak and write the language." Malden gestured toward a street sign. "Even the streets carry Danish names, like Attardag Road over there."

  Zack watched the crowds flow along the sidewalks; throngs of tourists, families with cameras, sidewalk breakfast seating, colorful tour buses.

  "It's a Danish Disneyland."

  Traffic moved slowly through the town. Tourists mobbed the sidewalks and overflowed into the street. The buildings crowded together, one shop after another, bright splashes of color, all with the trademark tall chimneys and thatched roofs.

  At the far end of town was another surprise––a Spanish mission, set on extensive grounds above the wide valley of the Santa Ynez River, a startling contrast to the bustling Danish village.

  Malden glanced at Zack. He smiled at his expression. "Hope I haven't bored you this trip. We're almost there. The Chumash Reservation is just over this rise."

  The Chumash Casino was imposing. Not in a skyscraper way, like the glistening towers Zack remembered in
Palm Springs, but just tall enough to fit the landscape, and very extensive. They followed a drive next to it and entered a large parking garage.

  "They must draw huge crowds," Zack said. Even at this hour, cars were scattered throughout the voluminous garage.

  "That they do. Not just for gambling, although that draws people from all over the world, but also for the shows. They get name acts in here and charge half what you'd spend for the same ones in LA. They've got a nifty showroom. It seats a lot of people for shows, and then they can convert it over for Bingo."

  They climbed the exit stairs and passed through a door to an upper level walkway. At the elevator, they dropped down two floors and followed a corridor tiled with brick with stone laid in a sunray pattern. Their heels clacked on the enameled floor surface. A sign announced Casino Offices. Malden pushed through the door.

  A woman with short dark hair in a form-fitting business suit looked up from her desk and smiled. "Be right with you." She typed another moment or two. When she finished she came over to them. Her movements were fluid.

  "How are you, Rick?" She smiled and extended her hand.

  "I'm just fine, Rebecca. May I introduce Zack Tolliver? He's an FBI Agent who works with the Navajo People in Arizona. Zack, Rebecca Mandela."

  "Welcome, Zack. We've been expecting you." She turned to Rick. "It's a short ride down to Paula's place. Give me a moment, will you?" Rebecca disappeared into a back office.

  "Expecting me?" Zack looked at Rick.

  Malden made a sheepish expression. "I wanted to get things started in case you agreed to stay. Rebecca is in charge of public relations, for the Casino as well as the Tribe."

  Zack looked around the office. He was drawn to the pictures on the walls. Some were contemporary photos of landscapes and wildlife; others were black and white portraits of people dressed in native clothing. All were quite good.

  Rebecca returned, the business suit gone, a T-shirt, jeans, and boots in their place. "Shall we?" She led them out the door. They retraced their route back to the parking garage, took the elevator down to a subbasement level. When the door opened Zack saw a fleet of bright yellow Jeep Wranglers, tops removed, dried mud splattered on their tires and fenders.