by David Knop
After the light show I asked, “You make Wookie for the killing of the Pecos men at my pueblo?” My question was not random, Wookie Gutierrez remained unfinished business.
“Yes, I think Wookie killed Jason and his father, but I don’t have the evidence I need. Fortunately, I can hold him for dealing firearms and drugs to the Chivingtons. That will give me some time.” She busied herself at the sink. I took comfort in the morning sounds: running water, the clatter of dishes. “I have to find him, first.”
I asked, “Want to hear my theory of how this whole thing went down? How Pokoh set it up.” I said.
She turned off the water. “Okay, but I’ve already developed my theory of the—”
“Hear me out. It was Pokoh, Pokoh the man, who goaded the Chivingtons into killin’ the horses. You know, a weird but offensive hate crime against the horses’ owner, a Saudi. Pokoh wasn’t sure I would investigate, so he convinced Wookie that Jason Pecos was about to rat him out. Poor Juan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“When I went to Colorado to investigate, he got the Chivingtons to kill the sheepherder who may have known too much. Poor hikers were in the wrong place, too. Pokoh had the Chivs by the balls by then and extorted them to participate in his plan to start a race war.”
“Okay, who shot Pokoh, the man, and why? You know, the truck and the sniper?”
“Well, Pokoh put the stars in the sky, why couldn’t he put a bullet in his own head?”
She cocked her head. “That doesn’t sound right, Peter.”
“Anyone find evidence of a sniper? Shells, footprints, tire tracks? Anybody hear anything?”
“Well. no.”
“Okay, then it sounds right to me. Then Pokoh, the spirit, played on my beliefs in an attempt to make me his ally. I fell for it ‘til Oso set me straight. Then, when Pokoh, the spirit, figured things weren’t going his way he became the skinwalker, Grizz, and came after me.”
“Where is Oso, now, Peter?”
Her change of focus told me she was not buying in. “Colorado. Last I saw him was at Garden of the Gods. I think he’s gone forever.”
She cocked her head. “Okay, the crooked cops. Lettau and his cronies? Where do they fit in your theory?”
“Not related to Pokoh’s plans. Lettau was affiliated with the cartels through the snowboarders and he believed my investigation would uncover his activities. Truth is, I figured him as a run-of-the-mill redneck until he tried to kill me.”
“That’s my belief on Lettau’s involvement, too.” She went back to washing the dishes. “Part of me believes you, but I can’t take any theory involving Pokoh to a federal prosecutor,” she said.
I said, “Any prosecutor would jump on Wookie with both feet.”
She looked up. “I know what you’re thinking. Stay out of it, Peter, Wookie’s a dangerous man.”
As exhausted as I was from the events of the past week, I had no intention of staying out of it. The fucker had my ride.
After breakfast, I gave the leftovers to Oso’s pet bear, Sash, and I became her newest best friend. I twirled my arms above my head the way I’d seen Oso do it and she whirled about. Then she gave me my first real bear hug and lumbered off. It tugged at my heart to see her go. Later, I gave Oso’s cousin a call and he agreed to see after the old bear.
Jean and I went our separate ways after a long, tempting hug. “I appreciate you listening and your support of my beliefs,” I said.
She smiled, said, “I believe in you, Peter.”
Jean loaned the bucar sedan to me and said she would pick it up in New Mexico.
As I drove home, I suddenly felt giddy. Just thinking of Jean gave me a reaction I hadn’t had since I met Costancia thirty years ago, and that feeling wouldn’t let go.
At home in New Mexico, I sorted through my emails, many of them from women with Russian names wanting to meet me.
In the mailbox, I found a one-week load of catalogs and brochures, maybe a pound’s worth, and a short stack of letters. Two of the envelopes were from BandelierQuickLoan marked, “Urgent”. That sort of bad news would have to wait.
I called Tommy Palafox.
“The FBI is locked on the Chivingtons for the horse killings. They got DNA evidence from one of their trucks,” I said.
“Reel told me the same thing. She also said she was finished in Southern Colorado and returning to Albuquerque,” Palafox said. “Know what she was working on up there?” he asked.
My heart jumped at the idea of Jean returning. I said. “Classified is all she told me.”
“Typical,” he said.
“One more thing.” I asked, “Any idea where Wookie Gutierrez is hanging out?”
“Española last I heard. He’s on my radar for a backdoor heist at a Walmart. Insurance case. Wookie bribed forklift drivers to load his truck.”
I had planned another day of rest, but this information energized me. I retrieved my .45 semi-automatic, a necessity when dealing with Wookie and placed it in the sedan’s glove compartment. At noon, I hopped in the bucar, pushed the pedal to the floor and kept it there. This sedan was a hog and if I have ever needed the big engine in my Jeep, it was now.
Dealing with a life-long criminal like Wookie could be dangerous, and I would have to catch him off guard. He’d asked me to find his toddler when we met at the lowrider show. Of course he left out the part where he may have murdered his wife, but I sensed emotion in the man when he talked about his daughter. I would tell him I had found her. Playing on his emotions didn’t bother me. Wookie was a killer and as street-smart as anyone I ever met, but my scam just might work.
In Española three of my usual informants clammed up or played stupid. In the evening, I found JJ Chavez, a homeless man I’ve known for years. JJ was an ex-paratrooper who’d experienced a failed chute and never got over it. He lived behind Lowe’s, outside the gardener’s tools, pottery, and fertilizer section.
“JJ, I’m lookin’ for Wookie.” I didn’t get too close to the man. JJ seemed too comfortable with his unwashed aroma, a mix of body odor and dirty feet. Downwind, he secreted a hint of shit, too. “Keeps the riff-raff away,” he once told me.
“Ain’t seen him,” said JJ.
“Forty bucks if you tell me where he’s at,” I said.
JJ looked to the right, left, shot a glance behind him. “Rumors goin’ around gonna be a heist over to the Big Five tonight. Ain’t sayin’ its true. Ain’t sayin’ it’s Wookie, neither. Just what I heard.” I shoved forty bucks in his filthy hand and fast-walked back to the sedan.
Wookie would not show until later, so I ate then drove to the store on Riverside Drive, arriving at ten-thirty. I circled the building. In the back, loading docks were serviced by three tall cargo doors. Everything seemed locked up and quiet, but the standing lights were off. I found that more than strange.
A dimly lit rear entrance at a nearby clothing store had a good view of the loading dock. On this moonless night, my black Ford blended in perfectly. Any observer would conclude it belonged to a store owner working late.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Stakeouts were the most boring activity a cop could perform. By eleven-thirty, I was sleepy and hungry. I rubbed my eyes and fought to keep them open. I was dead on my feet and feared driving the twenty miles home would not end well. I reached for the ignition just as a light duty box truck pulled up slowly to the loading dock. I slouched down in my seat as the truck backed into the Big Five dock and braked, motor running.
Wookie stepped down from behind the wheel. Up went a loading door and someone drove a forklift with a stack of pallets into the truck. Another stack followed, then another. Wookie handed over a paper bag, then pulled himself up to the wheel after slamming the truck’s rear door. The Big 5 employee disappeared into the building with his forklift and rolled down the cargo door with a crash. I could have nailed him then, but I had no idea if his hoods were waiting nearby.
Wookie drove out of
the dock going east. I stomped it on a side street and beat him to the intersection. A tree concealed me as I hid behind it. I stepped out when he stopped at a sign. I stood on the passenger step, my pistol aimed at his head. He held up his hands.
“Get out of the truck, Wookie.”
Wookie raised his head, then chinned in my direction. “Chíngate, cabrón.”
“How ‘bout I put a bullet in the engine block? Then what will you do with three pallets of jocks and tennis balls?”
“Hey, this is a fuckin’ rental, I got a damage deposit. I’m goin’ straight, man.”
Wookie had an interesting definition of going straight driving a truck full of stolen goods.
“That’s a fine way to speak to the man whose found your little Ximena, your preciosa.” I lied. Wookie’s daughter had been fostered out; a fact wisely kept from him.
Wookie stepped out of the truck, but left the engine running. He walked around the front of the truck toward me but kept his hands raised chest high. “Where is she?” he asked.
Wookie had gone from aggressive banger ‘tude to a father with open hands and heart. So far, my diversion had worked. I didn’t have his daughter, but the possibility of seeing her again caught him off guard.
“We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll have Ximena, you have my Jeep,” I said.
Wookie glared, asked, “How do I know you ain’t ly—” His jaw dropped. “Estúpido. I don’t have no fuckin’ Jeep.” He dropped his arms. “Estas loco en la cabeza,” he said, pointing to my head. He started to laugh. “Repo man got it, tonto. Flatbed took your Jeep. Funniest shit I seen in a long time.”
I flashed to the two letters sitting on my desk, both from BandelierQuickLoan. Fuck. I was so intent on getting my Jeep back from Wookie that I lost focus on everything else.
“If you’re lyin’ to me, Wookie—”
Wookie sank to his knees in hysterics, then fell to the ground clutching his chest fighting for breath between spasms of laughter. He could’ve been lying, except he wasn’t.
I took advantage of his temporary helplessness and cuffed him.
“Hey, what the fuck, cabrón?”
I half-carried, half-dragged him to my sedan and stuffed him into the back seat. I hopped behind the wheel and took off. I called the Rio Arriba Sheriff’s Office and told them I’d found Wookie and informed them he had pending federal murder charges. I also told them where to pick up the rental full of stolen goods.
The next morning, a knock at the door woke me. My first notion was Wookie’s thugs had come for reprisal. When I peered through the peephole, I held my .45 at my hip.
Jean winked and placed her finger over the peephole when she spotted my eye behind it. When I let her in, she gave me a long kiss.
I’d made breakfast, if you want to call toast and coffee breakfast. “I found Wookie late last night.” I looked for an expression of approval, but she gave none.
I asked, “Sheriff say he spilled anything in interrogation?”
“He lawyered up,” she said.
I showed her the letter from BandelierQuickLoan and asked her for a ride. I was too embarrassed to tell her it had been impounded and Wookie had not taken it.
She said she’d drive me to the impound lot. “Later,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bedroom.
Much later, she drove me to the impound lot to retrieve my Jeep. While driving we talked.
“I think I’m going to miss No Name, as you call him, for a long time,” she said.
“He was a good man. I’ll miss Juan Pecos, too. We grew up together. Like so many parents, he had the misfortune of having a son who got into drugs.” Suddenly, I missed my own son and felt relief that he’d grown up without getting into serious trouble.
I said, “It’s disappointing you got nothing from Wookie.”
“He had a driver when he committed the murders. Told us all we need. The DA’s pushing for life-without-parole.”
I was torn on Wookie. Yes, he was a killer and I’d put most of his male family members in jail at one time or another and that’s where he belonged for the rest of his life. But I saw something human in him when I’d lied and told him I’d found his daughter. Wookie had lived a bad life and would be sentenced to prison for life. A life squandered is a sad thing to witness.
“And Lettau?”
“Gave it all up: gun runners, bad cops, Sinaloa operatives. Nine in custody at last count. Couldn’t shut him up. He’ll probably do five, maybe less, then witness protection after that.”
“Jesus. Not bad for two murder attempts on me.”
“Greater good, Peter. For the greater good.” She sighed.
“Ute Traditionals?”
Reel said, “Looks like they’ll do nine months then probation.”
“Chivingtons?”
“The horse killings belong to New Mexico and Colorado law enforcement. I gave them all I have.”
She pointed, turned into the driveway. “Here we are.”
“And Pokoh?” I asked.
“What about him?” she asked.
“He’s still out there. I know it. I was responsible for Pokoh’s defrocking by Senawahv and I broke his body when I ran over him. No human could have walked away in his condition. Pokoh kept a grudge alive for over a century. Will I be waiting for his payback for the rest of my life?”
She gave me a look of doubt. “Looking back is not a good way to live. It’s better to believe there will be happiness forever.” Her face lit up. “Oh, by the way, Palafox says the ranch owner has an impressive token of appreciation for you.”
“I couldn’t accept—”
“Hush, I already bought a new bikini, a very small one,” she said with a wink.
“You can model it this evening.” My turn to wink. “What do you think of Cabo?”
She didn’t wait for my answer, said, “I love you, but I’m late for work.” She drove off.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all who supported me in the writing of this novel. Thanks goes out to my long-time writing compatriots Ken Kuhlken and Maynard Kartvedt. My beta readers not only get thanks, but a big hug: Craig Blakey, Judy Hamilton, Gene Riehl, and Ken. My Thursday writing group led by Rich Farrell gets a hearty thank you as well for helping me add magic to each scene. A super hug and kiss to my editor, Molly Knop, for her in-depth editing and innovative cover design.
The Author
David E. Knop is a retired Marine officer with twenty years of service. He served two tours in Vietnam as an artillery forward observer and naval gunfire support officer. As a staff officer, he authored numerous military operations plans. Dave also wrote feature articles for the Field Artillery Journal and Marine Corps Gazette.
In civilian life, Dave became a technical writer and produced many electronic and automotive manuals for industry leaders such as SAIC and Computer Sciences Corporation. Dave’s work for the Eighth Air Force received an award of excellence in a Northern California Society of Technical Communications competition.
Dave’s first novel, The Smoked Mirror, a supernatural thriller featuring former Marine, Cochiti Pueblo police officer Peter Romero, placed honorable mention in both the Maryland Writers’ Association and Reading Writers contests. Dave’s second mystery, Mining Sacred Ground, brings the role of spirit warrior to the subgenre of Native American detectives. This novel was a semi-finalist in a recent Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Contest and placed top ten in the Killer Nashville competition. Dave’s third novel, Poisoned by God’s Flesh was awarded a bronze medal by the Military Writers Society of America. Animal Parts, a Peter Romero mystery, received honorable mention in the 2016 Public Safety Writers Association writing competition and achieved finalist in the 2017 New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards.
An alumnus of Book Passage Mystery Writer’s workshops, Taos Institute of the Arts, and Maui Writer’s Retreats, Rose Tyson Seminar in Forensic Sciences, and Cri
me Scene Investigations, UC Riverside, Dave is a lifelong student of Native American mythology.
Also by David E. Knop
Mining Sacred Ground
Poisoned by God’s Flesh
Animal Parts
Please visit me at https://davideknopbooks.com/
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