ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  "You are safe with me, Jesus," the girl repeated, her voice soft, patient.

  "What...what do you want?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to go home." All of Jesus' pent up fear was in his response.

  "That is what I want as well. I want to help you go home."

  "But how...?"

  She did not answer. Instead, she grasped his hand, led him toward the cave door. He came with her. Her touch brought a tingle to his arm, like a small charge of electricity. In a moment they were outside the cave.

  It was lighter here. Jesus saw the outline of trees; far above there were stars. A touch of moonlight shimmered on the path. Jesus knew he should be afraid, yet he wasn't. When the girl Tomasa held his hand, his fear left. He hung on tight. He saw her in the dim light, more movement than substance, like fish that would rise to his bait in the murky bay waters back home. He clung to her hand and followed her. He noticed something else. He could walk without pain, still awkward but without the customary painful jolts.

  The night air felt cool against his sweaty face. They came to the stream, and to his surprise Tomasa led him into the water. It lapped cold against the bare skin in his huaraches. They turned upstream, stayed in the middle of the current. At each obstacle, stone or deadwood, Tomasa warned him with a quick squeeze of her hand. Invariably, he moved up and over it with ease. They traveled as in a dream.

  Jesus followed Tomasa up the rivulet for a long time. It was almost pleasant, the breath of night air on his face, the cold water on his feet, the heat of his body from the exercise enough to keep him warm. He sensed the canyon walls narrow, the slopes grow steeper. The stream itself funneled, steepened, bubbled over high step-like rock ledges. The higher they climbed, the brighter shone the moon. It glistened and sparkled on the froth of the rushing water. It frosted the meadows, leant a mystical glow to the valley beneath. Neither spoke.

  Jesus kept a firm grip on Tomasa's hand. As long as he held on to her, he felt he could surmount any obstacle. Trust her, she had said. This was what she meant.

  * * * * *

  The light of dawn had begun to outline the blackness of the mountain summits when Tomasa led Jesus across a field and among rows of grape vines.

  She dropped his hand. "You wait here. The workers will come soon. Tell them where you need to go." She patted his arm gently. "Your troubles are over now."

  Jesus stared across the vineyard toward distant buildings. He was bone weary yet he needed answers to a thousand questions. He turned to ask Tomasa––she was gone, only mist between the vines where she had been.

  Jesus slumped to the ground, his buttocks on the soft earth; let the thick vine support him like a hammock. His mind raced, went back to the night, the trudge up and down the mountain slopes, hour after hour. It all should have been torture, somehow it wasn't. Each time Jesus thought he could go no farther, stopped to rest, he was soon overcome by restlessness, wanted to go on.

  Tomasa said little on their journey. She appeared indefatigable, her breath never labored, she moved with such grace she seemed to dance up the mountainsides. Never once did she release Jesus's hand.

  He looked at it now, palm up, the thick fingers, the calloused skin. Energy had come to him from her soft hand. The power of her will, like an electric current, surged into him. Now she was gone, her energy with her. Jesus collapsed like a puppet dropped by the puppeteer.

  Jesus woke with a start at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. The rising sun cast the face above him in shadow.

  "Que pasa, Amigo? Who are you? Why are you here?" The voice was rough.

  Jesus squinted up.

  Other figures stood nearby, curious.

  "Me perdi," he said. "The truck left without me. I became lost." Jesus struggled to rise. His knee was agony, he fell back.

  A strong hand gripped his.

  Jesus stood, his weight on his good leg. "I walked and walked, it was dark. I tripped and fell. I injured my knee." Jesus rubbed his bad knee to show them.

  The voice sounded less harsh. "Where do you come from?"

  "I work for Señor Rufus Reyes in Santa Lupita. The driver left without me."

  "Come. Lean on my shoulder. We will go to my supervisor. He will help you." The man was big and very strong. He half carried Jesus down the rows.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Zack left Eagle Feather and Susan to catch up on their news. He went to find Malden.

  Rick Malden lived in Orcutt, a town by name but a community so melded into the sprawl of Santa Maria that Zack didn't know when he had left the one and entered the other. His wide front porch faced east to catch the warm morning sun; now it was dark, a moth-clustered porch lamp the only light.

  Malden opened the door at the first knock. A long black nose poked around him to sniff Zack. Malden held the dog's collar. "Come in, Zack. I was glad to get your call."

  Zack stroked Toker's head as he stepped into the front hall.

  "Let's go to the sitting room," Malden said, steered him down a step to a room with overstuffed chairs and a large TV. He pointed to one of the chairs. "Coffee, soda, beer?" When Zack declined, Malden sat down opposite him.

  Toker took up residence next to Zack's chair.

  "I'm glad to see you moving so well on that leg." Zack scratched behind Toker's ears.

  "Oh, it really was nothing. Hurt like hell, but it's what they call in the movies a flesh wound." His eyes narrowed. "Barnard tells me the guy that shot me didn't fare so well."

  Zack shook his head and grimaced. "There was nothing left of him but a pool of blood." He went on to describe the day's events.

  When he had finished, Rick sat back in his chair. He let out a long whistle. "We've got a serial killer loose in the forest."

  "That's about the size of it. Fortunately, he seems zeroed in on the drug traffickers. We think he may have been around a lot longer than this, that nobody knew it. The recent spate of killings might be due to increased drug activity in this guy's domain."

  "You're going back out there tomorrow?"

  "Yes. The injured grower is still out there, so far as we know. We'll get on his trail again, see where it takes us." Zack leaned forward. "Which brings me to another question. You must have wondered how the sniper knew exactly where to find you to ambush you."

  Malden rubbed his thigh, nodded. "That question did occur to me. At first, I figured it was pure coincidence, the rifleman saw my truck from a distance, thought I was a rival." He shook his head slowly. "After some thought, I no longer buy that."

  "Why not?"

  Malden regarded Zack. "I think the real target was you."

  "Me?"

  "Consider this." Malden's face grew animated. "I've been in and out of all those locations almost every day. I've probably stumbled right by grow sites more than once. No one ever shot at me. I'm old news. These guys had me factored in." He pointed at Zack. "You are the news, a strange fed nosing around. I think they wanted to send you a message."

  "I'll confess, I hadn't thought of that."

  "But for the fact I got the call to help process the new grow, we'd all have come out together. The rifleman––"

  "That's it," Zack breathed. "No one knew Eagle Feather would be with us, let alone Tomasa. The assassin would expect me to come back with you." Zack eyed Malden. "That is, after you got the call."

  Malden sat still, absorbed it all. He stared back at Zack. "The telephone call was the key. That's how they timed it."

  "Right. So who was it called you?"

  "Jeremy Tusco, my partner."

  Zack watched Malden's face, waited.

  "No, no. If that's what you're thinking, not a chance. I've known Jeremy a long time. Besides, he only passes along the orders from the command level."

  "Which is..."

  "Which can be a number of people. When a ranger locates a large crop operation, he reports it to the department. A day is selected, the other rangers up and down California are notified, and we all gather at th
e appropriate station the night before to make plans. Frequently, there are not enough rangers, so state troopers are called in to augment the force."

  "You didn't know in advance about this raid."

  "Right. Sometimes the operation is small, only one or two rangers required. Sometimes we have to move quickly, before the growers can start destroying stuff, or a ranger is endangered, that kind of thing. In those instances, a state police sergeant or some other administrator might call the shots. Sometimes its even someone lower down the chain of command in the forestry service." Malden shrugged. "It's hard to know sometimes."

  "But you can find out..."

  "Oh, yes, I can most certainly find out, and I will."

  * * * * *

  At 6 AM the following morning Zack and Eagle Feather were at a hanger at the Santa Maria airfield as a crew rolled out the CHP helicopter. The marine layer, as the locals called the morning fog, enveloped men and machine in a ghostly aura. Soon after, Darby turned up, then other men straggled in, yawning, coffees held in a death grip.

  "It's gonna be a bit crowded," Darby said. He put his large kit down on the tarmac. "We have two teams going in, forensics and investigative. We'll be one person over listed capacity, but it won't be the first time. This is a brand new MD500E; we use it for the quieter four-bladed tail rotor. It will handle all of us easily."

  "Well look here, it's the rent-a-fed."

  Zack turned, saw the towering figure of Dom Antonio. He had a small pack on his back and a rifle case in his hand. The man grinned at him.

  Zack shook his hand. "For a rental, you folks are getting a bargain." He gestured toward the case. "Why the fancy equipment?"

  Dom's grin turned evil. "You never know when you might get a shot at a bad guy. Who's your friend?"

  Zack made the introductions.

  Dom looked from one to the other. "No rifle?"

  Zack shook his head. "We're not after a killer. We're trying to rescue a wounded, frightened man."

  Dom shook his head in disagreement. "We've already got a man down from rifle fire. I don't plan to be pinned down without a way to talk back." He patted his case.

  The helicopter rotors turned slowly, sped up, and the men climbed in. Darby took a seat on the floor, his case in his lap. They took off and in five minutes had popped out of the fog into a crystal clear day. The flight was brief. A half hour later they climbed out into the now familiar meadow. The sun already felt hot.

  Zack and Eagle Feather set out across the meadow and up the arroyo, left the four troopers to organize themselves. Despite steep slopes, the way was familiar, their progress swift.

  Once across the saddle, they rested. Eagle Feather led from there. A faint path around the mountainside took them on a gradual descent toward a deep valley nestled among hills. Eagle Feather was along this track the day before and moved now with confidence.

  With each foot of descent vegetation grew more thick and green. It was a place the sun reached indirectly, a secret Eden. The light felt different, diffused by thick foliage; gentled in its passage through the green canopy, it arrived on the forest floor friendly and bright. The cool of night was imprisoned within the valley and hung in the air, as refreshing as a waterfall mist.

  There was something magical about the place. Zack felt refreshed, his senses sharpened. The sharp demand of the scrub jay, the sad question of a mourning dove came like music in an iPod to his ears. He stopped to listen, entranced. Unseen creatures rustled somewhere on the forest floor, he caught the scent of moldering wood and wild ginger. Somewhere below them a stream bubbled and chuckled its way down the valley.

  Zack caught Eagle Feather eyeing him.

  "The ancients live here," the Navajo said.

  The trace path they followed widened, other animal paths joined. The trees were tall here, stretched toward the sunlight. The frothy water of the brook cascaded over boulders and pooled behind mossy logs. The valley was long, deep, narrow. Trees of many varieties stood in groves, vines draped rocky cliffs, lichen and moss draped rotting logs like green caps; boulders, rounded by forces of nature clustered here and there like great forgotten marbles.

  They came to the stream. The path, a moist film, presented a maze of animal prints etched clear in the damp earth, but the footprints they followed were not there.

  Eagle Feather crossed the rivulet, knelt to study the ground on the far side. "If they came this way, they left no sign." He looked back across the rippling water. "They must have turned off sooner."

  Zack nodded, went back up the path. A few yards along, he saw where a line of exposed rock traversed the slope. He walked along it, found a telltale swale in a patch of grass. From there it was not difficult to follow their tracks across the creek through the meadow to a large stand of brush where they found a well-concealed gap through the tangled branches. They passed through. Beyond was a clearing, beyond it a sheer rock cliff, in it the dark maw of a cave.

  Eagle Feather went toward it, cautious. He signaled Zack to wait, crept in. A moment later he reappeared. "Nobody's home."

  Zack went in. Light near the cave entrance was enough to judge size and depth. He noticed painted handprints and other pictographs on the walls. Deeper in the cave was evidence of modern man in the form of discarded food wrappers and tin cans. Sleeping bags and clothing strewn against the far walls indicated this cave was used frequently––and recently.

  Eagle Feather scanned the dirt near the cave entrance. When Zack re-emerged he pointed to the ground. Footprints of both Injured Man and Big Man proved they both were here. "Someone else was here, too."

  Zack followed Eagle Feather's finger, saw a smaller impression, a moccasin print. "Tomasa?"

  Eagle Feather nodded. He stood and stared back at the cave. "Everything points to a hasty departure."

  "They were discovered?"

  "Maybe. Yet I can find no other prints."

  They searched the ground together. The small clearing yielded nothing, so they worked their way through the brush tangle to the outside meadow. Trapped moisture from the stream left the grass spongy. There were traces of passage but no distinct footprints. Not until they increased their perimeter to include the slopes beyond the meadow did they find useful tracks. Eagle Feather found them first.

  "I have prints for Big Man here. They lead up the valley."

  "Alone?"

  "So far. His strides are long, not shortened as they were with Injured Man."

  "You go ahead. I'll search in the other direction," Zack said. He set to work, crossed and re-crossed the meadow, then the forest floor beyond. There was no sign of Injured Man or Tomasa. He was ready to give it up when he heard an urgent call from Eagle Feather.

  Zack found Eagle Feather at a point where the canyon steepened and narrowed into an arroyo. He was near one of the last tall trees, an oak with thick outstretched branches. His eyes were on the ground. Zack came closer; saw a dark substance on the forest floor. It matted the leaves and covered the debris. He didn't need to be told what it was.

  "He was running before he arrived here. Something frightened him." Eagle Feather pointed to a leafy area outside the blood smear.

  Zack looked, saw a shell casing.

  "Whatever it was, he shot at it."

  Zack searched among the leaves and found three more shells. "These are from a handgun. He must have emptied it." He stooped, picked up another.

  Eagle Feather opened his palm. In it was a different shell. "This is a .358 Winchester cartridge."

  "A rifle."

  "Yeah," Eagle Feather said. He pointed down the slope. "He first shot at something from down there. Then he dropped the rifle, ran this far, turned and fired multiple shots with his handgun."

  "The guns didn't save him."

  Buzzing flies covered the large pool of coagulated blood. Red-black matter coated leaves and dirt over a three-foot square area, as if a giant water balloon filled with the liquid had burst above it.

  Zack felt sick. Had something similar happened t
o the Mexican? What about Tomasa?

  Eagle Feather pointed. "Here's a branch right where he could hang the carcass. There's evidence of abrasion on it."

  Realization dawned for Zack. "Big Man shot at him, and so he died. Just like the others, just like I would've if Tomasa hadn't stopped me."

  "I don't think we're gonna find a body here, either."

  Zack felt something close to panic. "We've got to find out what happened to Injured Man and Tomasa." He jogged back toward the cave.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A search of the ground near the cave again revealed nothing. They searched the stream banks for 100 yards in each direction; examined every leaf, scrutinized the tiniest overturned stone.

  Zack shrugged, admitted defeat. "It's as if they evaporated."

  Eagle Feather eyed the rippling current. "They must have used the water to hide their tracks. I would do that. It gets rough, though. They'd have to step high up over logs and stand on tipsy rocks with slick surfaces." He shook his head. "I don't see how Injured Man could do that."

  "If we suppose they did manage it, how can we know whether they went upstream or downstream?"

  "Right. If we pick wrong, we lose all that extra time. Even then, there may be no evidence to support the idea." Eagle Feather shook his head. "You tell me how this man who can barely walk on a flat surface could walk in that creek."

  Zack thought about it. "I guess we're done here." He walked to the tree where he'd left his pack.

  Eagle Feather followed. "What now?"

  "Let's have lunch, then head back." Zack sat and leaned against the tree.

  Eagle Feather brought his pack over.

  Silence ensued while the two tired, hungry men refreshed themselves. Now that they were still, the forest came to full life with birdsongs and the rustle and whisper of wind in the treetops. The rushing waters bubbled a cheerful accompaniment.

  Warmed by the sun, Zack grew drowsy. Yet something nagged him, some piece of the puzzle he couldn't place. "You wonder how these cartel assassins got their information."