The Major made a call and in a few minutes a burly, short man walked in, his fatigues immaculate but freshly stained with oil and dirt, clearly called off a job working on one of the many older machines they were issued, second hand, denoting their status in the military establishment – end of the trough, after the big pigs were finished.
“Sir?” his voice carried both authority and a twinge of annoyance this gaggle of brass had disturbed his restful puttering on a large jet engine that had an as yet unknown, failed part he was working to find so they could put it back on ready status. The sooner he finished talking with them, the better.
His shirt had the sewn tag of a senior master sergeant, an E-8, someone who normally wouldn't work as a maintenance man, supervising and running the paperwork instead. Over his pocket he had a combat infantryman badge and paratrooper wings with a combat jump star. He'd been there, the real thing, finishing out his time in the Guard, closer to home, working toward a fat retirement which, by looking at the salt and pepper in the close cropped hair he had over his temples, was coming soon.
A younger version of the Sergeant ran in, calling to him, “Hey Dad, where'd you put that pressure gauge, oh!” The young soldier, his fatigues also stained from intense work, just like his father's, snapped to attention and gave a smart salute to Jabo, “Sorry sir, won't happen again sir.”
“You have a lot of Balls Major,” Cathy said, holding a half smile on her face as both officers looked at her, bringing a certain gleam to the grizzled noncom who'd heard them all, but never delivered by such a stunning, clearly witty woman.
“Ah, yes, right,” the Major gave Jabo a questioning look, turning so his face could ask who the hell was this civilian woman?
“Cathy, can you call Albert, see if he can help us get a ride?” He took out his phone when he knew she had her own, but she nodded, letting the younger Corporal Ball lead her down the short hallway to the break room.
“We need to go to Alpine, to that site where the border guards were murdered,” the gruff sergeant looked at the Major who gave his approval, then back at Jabo.
“Is this off the books?” his voice was curt, like he wanted to opt out, even a request from an officer who'd pulled rank on his commander.
Jabo could sense things were getting out of control even before they started, which would mean driving for half a day through the hot desert, for possibly nothing. They didn't have the time.
“I lost my grandparents, Jonah and Mary Bowie, and yes, my great, great, great, great grandfather was Colonel James Bowie,” he saw the man's eyes change, asking an apology, understanding why Jabo was so motivated. “Can you give us a ride down there?”
“When the hell would you like to go?” he smiled, reaching out his hand instead of saluting, which was fine with Jabo.
“Looks like you've made my Balls happy,” the Major said, giving the men shaking hands a 'what?' look, then they all grinned as they assembled around a desk to plan the mission.
Chapter Six
This is sacred ground. It is the dust and blood of our ancestors.
Chief Plenty Coups
Jabo and Cathy were sitting in the back of the helicopter with the two Balls in the front flying and talking to each other, the younger one handling communications with the flight controllers while his father sped them down to Alpine, riding the GPS display, a decent unit he'd attached with clamps to the dashboard in front of him, an upgrade from the older Loran system that had come with the bird when it was transferred from the Army. He didn't really need it. This was their stomping grounds, but it let him cut a straight path, understanding time was important to his passenger who'd been talking on the phone from the moment they strapped in and lifted off.
It was the Brigade commander's air limo, their nominal commander who rarely came by. He'd have a shit fit if he knew it was being used for something like this. The usual reaction from an entitled political appointee who used it to take his friends hunting in a very exclusive resort near the Border, where you could shoot deer and antelopes, or just drink beer and whiskey then talk football or the current crazy political situation.
That was life in the Texas Guard, that proudly boasted former President Bush, W., as one of theirs. He'd joined to avoid being drafted, if the story was true, but lots of young men had done the same thing at that time, serving was all that mattered, and serve they did, since the Iraq war had made everyone in the reserves cycle through combat tours. Their pilot, Sgt Balls, had served in a combat area, his helo taking rounds from a heavy machine gun before his door gunner gave it back as they circled, low enough to catch the enemy vehicle driving off, out of ammo. It added a DFC to his chest, since he'd taken a bullet through his calf but kept on flying until they took out the truck and the gun crew in the back. He had the balls his named indicated.
Jabo and Cathy used the headsets to talk, since the interior of the helicopter was very noisy, with the jet engines over head screaming to generate their high speed along with the wind noise and rattles from the bumpy ride, courtesy of invisible, turbulent air columns rising from the hot flat land.
Jabo threw the switch that let him talk to Sgt Ball, going off Cathy's suggestion he ask if the man had heard of this border patrolman, Henry Starwalker, an American Indian from the sound of his name.
“Henry, sure, he's not from this area, Apache I think. Everybody around here knows him,” he talked to his son on the other channel then came back, “yeah, Northern New Mexico, the real thing too, does tracking for the Border Patrol, the best they have, a real legend.”
“Thanks for the Bio, but how do we get in contact with him?”
“Shit, I dunno, wait,” he paused then came back, “Billy found his facebook page, and sent him a message, we'll see what he says,” the helicopter jumped then fell off to the side, showing he was getting distracted by all the talk. “Sorry, these heat bumps are getting bigger the hotter it gets, nothing I can't handle,” The helicopter did it again. It seemed to have a mind of its own, like a horse being broken, ready to buck at the slightest provocation.
“You wanna send him your phone number, I got shit to do, we're about ten minutes out.”
“Right, got it,” he liked the way the man ignored his rank and treated him like any other passenger. That's how he wanted to be viewed, as a man first, then as an officer. He reached out to Cathy who quickly sent both their phone numbers to the facebook account of a Henry Starwalker, border patrol consultant and part time medicine person.
“Starwalker, is this Jabo Bowie?” he was blunt, to the point and busy, always doing something along a border that was never quiet or empty.
“Yes sir, Anna said we should talk, we're coming in about a half mile from the checkpoint,” he spoke loudly, over the roar of the engines whose whine had changed as they slowed down and started losing altitude, coming in.
“I see you, I'll come to you, tell the helicopter guys to leave someone with the bird, and the rest of you can come with me. We have a big trailer set up as a command post.” He hung up, a man of few words.
His only comment when they landed and walked out of the slowing rotor's dusty cloud was 'Ball eh?' his face remained expressionless as he turned back to his truck, letting everyone sort out where to sit.
“Can we talk there, instead of the command trailer?” Jabo asked, pointing to a stand of cottonwoods and maybe a creek as they bounced along the dirt road. The same washboard gravel road led back to the freshly paved county road, the one his grandparents had sped up and down for the last ten years, after they'd come to this part of Texas to retire. They'd found peace and beauty in this sparse, hot land, owned by the Bowie family for generations. Until they'd moved in full time, it was only a vast hunting preserve with a small cabin, too desolate for serious ranching.
Their house was a newer double wide trailer home, a recent upgrade from the much remodeled hundred year old farm house. It had a large steel garage beside it, where his grandfather puttered on his many vehicles and machines, keeping
busy. He'd been there three times, making him feel like an asshole, but their lives had never intersected, and the drive out from where he'd gone to school took hours. He should go by, but it was probably sealed off, part of their murder investigation, unavailable for a few weeks. After this was all over he'd see what needed to be done to keep it up, maybe use it as a vacation home or rent it out to a recent veteran who developed a taste for the desert, a way to honor their memory.
“Yeah, I get it, is the helicopter off the books?” After Starwalker had turned off, heading to the grove of cottonwoods he looked at Ball whose face said nothing beyond a glance at Jabo. A long time soldier, he left questions like that to the officers, in this case, Jabo.
“Yes, is that a problem?”
“No, sort of like it, means you're my kind of guy, gets things done, am I right?” His eyes diverted to the medal strip on Jabo's chest, then back to his eyes, changing when Jabo gave him a look of mutual respect. Starwalker caught it, nodding to show his own warrior past. There were two a kind, like Ball who looked off, then quietly asked Cathy if she'd mind him jumping out to take a piss.
They all did, including Cathy who claimed the front of the truck, as the others faced out to the desert, admiring the horizon and the small creek that wound through the flat valley, the only bit of green in miles.
“We could talk there, nice spot, actually has a little water, shade,” they followed Starwalker who kicked at a few of the larger bushes, making sure they weren't surprised, since a woman was along.
After walking to the thickest part of the grove, they sat down on a long log, all of them happy they'd taken his suggestion. The water cooled the air to livable temperature, lowered more by the thick shade the small grove of cottonwoods produced, with a light breeze, that kept up a rustling whisper. Henry moved out in front of them, a natural speaker, comfortable with nearly anyone, he looked them over, settling on Jabo.
“Air conditioning makes me sick – dry air, body odor – fast food gives all those white people deadly, silent farts,” That got a laugh, including Cathy no one turned to look at, making her feel part of this masculine crowd. Henry raised his hand to wave it in a long arc, pointing at their natural scenery, “this is much better,” he looked back at the trailer then at his audience, “and no ears.”
He smiled at Cathy, wishing her well, making sure she felt invited to be a part of this men's group. “You are newly married to Jabo, and want him to accept you as an equal in his work, a noble challenge,” he turned to Ball and shook his head with a slight smile, sharing an inside joke, “this man who leads you is trouble, he will never stop once he starts, like a bull dog,” Starwalker stepped up and stuck out his hand to the older NCO, “welcome my brother.”
Jabo felt strange, like Henry was channeling something outside his understanding, but in a nice way. Keeping him for last he felt a little intimidated. Appraising the tall, serious First Nation warrior, every bit as powerful as him, Jabo looked in his eyes where his mind sank, falling into his black irises – quickly. Jabo pulled back out, unsettled by the depth of this easy going man, feeling the connection they'd forged in a few seconds. His anxiety changed, becoming a profound sense of trust and caring, all emanating from this uniformed officer waiting for him to catch up and relax.
“Your parents are at peace, but you know this. Your Grandmother suffered but she has let go of this earthly misery and her death. She is happy with your grandfather, they wish you luck in this quest.”
Henry was either a man with spiritual abilities worthy of the Dai Lama or a charlatan. It made Jabo think hard for a moment then he decided he was a devout Medicine person of the first Nation who could not lie. What he'd said was true, releasing the coils of tension in his gut he'd had since he found about their death this morning.
“Good, good,” Henry had watched Jabo make up his mind about what he'd shared, seeing him mistrust then really comprehend what he'd shared. It was risky to be so open with a white man, to hear such things far beyond their normal experience. Jabo was a warrior, one who'd faced death in battle. Finding out about the after life and spirits would help him deal with that aspect of his life and his recent loss. It was the warrior way for his people and he hoped would be for him. Several men who'd died with his famous ancestor at the Alamo were part of the First Nation, what he called his people, not 'Indians', almost as bad as calling them 'Redskins', purely descriptive in the most trivial, demeaning sense. A trusting soldier like Jabo would be welcome with any of his people, anywhere.
“You want to know what I know, correct?”
“Yes,” he was going to say more, but shut up, seeing Cathy looking at Henry with awe, lacking any suspicion or doubt like he'd had initially. Sgt. Ball had wandered off to skip rocks across the small pond nearby, bored by all the fuss. He'd met Starwalker, knew he was genuine and felt uneasy hearing things he wasn't party to. He was ready to fly back to get back to his troublesome helicopter, a mystery he knew he'd solve eventually, unlike this murder that didn't feel like it would end well for the young Colonel.
“He's killed before, many people for money I'm sure. I looked over his shooting ground, a quick choice, since there was a better spot nearby, but he didn't have time, it was rushed or he didn't care. Confident, killing these people meant nothing, no different from shooting bottles off a log. After he was done he circled the checkpoint, admiring his work I guess, and to make sure nobody was alive. Thorough, obsessed with death, a very bleak soul, dangerous.” When he looked at Jabo for a second evil images flashed from the Medicine man's eyes, showing him the dark world he'd accessed to read this killer – who constantly stood with one foot in hell.
Jabo waited, as Henry looked off, then returned from that terrible place, listening, absorbed, hearing someone else talk to him. “I looked for his truck and found it north of here, next to an old air strip they used to deliver drugs before we got better radar coverage and our own planes to run them down. It was a small plane, it landed, he got in and left, bye bye.”
Jabo wanted to tell him his theory the pilot was the one who'd been found dead, in the crashed plane, the one that had taken the killer to Dallas. But he felt like a child who shouldn't interrupt an adult sharing a parable.
“He is not in this country. He got out of the small plane and death followed him.” He smiled, looking in Jabo's eyes, like he'd sensed what he wanted to tell him and already knew, “The one who flew him out is dead, I am sure. That is his way, to kill if he feels any threat at all.” He waited, then said, “I think he's Russian.”
Jabo's response and expression asked him, silently, how he'd come to this but Henry waved him off, either it was stuff he wouldn't believe or a good guess he couldn't justify to a White man. His certainty was based on experiences and beliefs that would take Jabo years to comprehend, as they had for him, treading the Medicine path.
“He likes young girls, but they must be tied up, naked, scared I bet. It is his sickness and fear of life, all placed on their head, so he can hide from himself and the blackness inside.” He got up, feeling dirtied by the maleficent visions and energy coming from this man, dropping to wash his hands then raise them to the sky, whispering a short prayer, asking protection and absolution.
As they watched StarWalker walk away, Jabo sensed the three of them, and probably Henry's superiors, had initially heard half of what he'd just told them. It was too direct and stark – of a world outside everything he'd ever known. Rigid minded, they'd remained unable to process Starwalker's deeper ideas and insights, but Jabo could and did by opening himself up to StarWalker's powerful spirit. It proved Jabo was a warrior, ready to learn new skills, ready to use his inner eye and listen from within.
Ready to continue, Henry returned, his tension gone, he felt grandfatherly and protective.
“Use this against him, it is his biggest weakness, you can trace him, find where he gets girls, where he lives they will know him well, this is not a normal sickness and desire,” his link to the place that was gone, the cr
ackling energy his infusing his words released. He folded his tall frame, joining to sit on the log, looking at the peaceful creek gurgling quietly by. He spoke as if telling a bedtime story, creating an image for everyone to see.
“I found where your grandparents stopped and rescued the girl, and where she got out of the killer's truck, as well as a small bit of dirt where he pissed, it's in the FBI lab, but that is all, I'm done, are you done with me?”
The spell passed, the hypnotist snapped his fingers and they all awoke, shaking their heads.
“I guess,” he turned to Cathy who was shocked by the visions Henry's softly spoken descriptions had created in her mind. A master who carried on a tradition of story telling and vivid connection with his audience, going back tens of thousands of years, every word and sound carried meaning that brought it all alive – a living, instant replay.
“The young girl knew she was going to die. She fought to stay alive and is still very angry. I will have many sweat lodges to comfort her spirit and help her along. She is the direct path you seek, understand why he needed her alive then killed her so easily, But he is not here, if you want their killer,” he waited then went on, “there are others, the ones who paid him, they are in the United States and other places, but mostly here. Do you want them or the killer?”
“I want them,” which made Henry nod his head, agreeing with Jabo, “it is a good fight. I wish you good luck, I am here, you may talk with me again, I must go, shall I take you back to your helicopter?”
“Well,” Jabo looked around, then back at Henry. The reason they'd come here was to find out what her father had done, where he'd worked, “her parents?”
“They were scared people, who he found in their hiding place and killed. He wanted to know why he was told to kill them, perhaps they told him, I cannot know. His soul is like looking at a deep, empty pool – nothing there.”
Hell To Pay Page 18