by Mark Reps
“Where is he? Where is my Abuelo? Where is my grandfather? Tell me where is Felipe Madrigal?” Ángel roared in a voice that even he had never heard come out of his own mouth.
“You’re a regular little firecracker when you get your undies in a bunch, aren’t you?”
“Where is my grandfather?” demanded Ángel threateningly. “Tell me now or else!”
“Or else what? Don’t tell me you’re going to pull out that little peashooter of yours and put a bullet in me?” chided Jimmie Joe. “I don’t think your man enough to try that. Go ahead if you think you are.”
Ángel knew he would end up on the short end of the stick if he tried anything, but in a moment of madness he put his head down and charged ahead, full speed, at Jimmie Joe’s big belly.
In his agitated state Ángel did not see the much bigger man pull the .38 from his holster. He only felt the steel handle as it cracked against his skull sending him into a cartoonish swirl of dancing stars. Crashing to the ground, Ángel became strangely lucid. Would he ever see Juanita again? Was his grandfather alive? Would Jimmie Joe’s next move be to place the gun behind his ear, slowly pull back on the trigger and put a bullet into his brain? This final thought, as consciousness drifted away, brought a smile to his face. The pain of getting hit over the head would certainly give him a headache. If he wasn’t dead, when he woke up he could deal with the pain.
Jimmie held a loose finger on the trigger of the .38 as he caressed Ángel’s ear with the barrel of the gun. A demonic smile covered his face as he bent down and spoke to the unconscious Ángel. “I ought to blow your fucking stupid ass brains to Kingdom come, my little muchacha. But I know you will suffer so much more knowing that you killed your lovely gata, Juanita, and put your grandfather in jail. And I don’t think the sheriff is going to be happy when he knows that little red Corvette that got his brother killed has your things in the trunk. It would just be too nice of a final gesture to kill your sorry ass. Goodbye, little one. See you in hell.”
Ángel did not hear Jimmie Joe’s pickup back out of the driveway. But when he came, to the truck’s tire tracks gave the Diablo Blanco away. The big man was heading north, up County Road 6, toward the San Carlos Reservation. Ángel knew the road. He knew Jimmie Joe had only two escape routes from there, Indian Route 11 to the northwest or the old mining road that led to the long abandoned Indian Flats Mine. Ángel stumbled over to his grandfather’s truck. If he could get it running, it would be a much better option than the Vega. One quick look at the engine and his decision was made. Without a distributor cap it wasn’t going anywhere.
Ángel tasted the blood pouring from his head as he stumbled along the outside of the house and made his way to the door. Inside, respectful of his grandfather’s house, he wrapped his head in a towel before falling into his grandfather’s chair as visions of his dead mother and dead grandmother surrounded him.
“Maybe I am to die for my bad deeds,” he muttered aloud.
Ángel fell off a deep abyss into unconsciousness. He had visited many a nightmarish place in his alcohol induced stupors, but nothing scared him like the dreadful feeling of falling into a bottomless hole as he passed out in his grandfather’s chair.
Demons nipping at his heels howled with the same terrible cackling he had heard come from Jimmie Joe. In his hallucinogenic dream state Ángel found himself covered in blood. Off in the hazy distance his mother and grandmother cried out to God to forgive Ángel and save the soul of their poor boy. He called out to them. His words fell on deaf ears as the images of his loved ones drifted further and further away. In despair he fell to his knees, ready to die, when he felt the presence of his grandfather.
“Grandfather…save me. Please help me. I will never drink again. Please. Please.”
A powerful gust of wind blew open the door to the small house, then slammed it shut again. Ángel stirred. A second gust of wind buffeted the door and his eyes fluttered. A third and he awoke.
“Grandfather? Is that you?”
Ángel tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He slumped deeper down in his grandfather’s chair. Blood, some dried and caked, some flowing, covered his aching head. He swooned with each attempted motion. He knew he was alive because only living men know they are bleeding. Stumbling to the sink he washed his face and wiped away the blood with his grandfather’s towel. Lifting his head to the mirror he saw only shame in what he had become.
“What have I done to my family?”
The wind slapping against the screened door startled Ángel. He instinctively reached for his knife. What had he become? Now, understanding the hopelessness of his situation, Ángel began to sob. He begged for an answer. Struggling to his car Ángel stuck his hand under the seat and grabbed a paper bag, money he had taken when Jimmie Joe wasn’t looking. It was maybe ten thousand dollars. He stuffed it behind the seat of his grandfather’s truck.
Returning to the rusted out Vega he turned on the radio to the Spanish speaking station. A newswoman reporting on the Morenci robbery said the bandits had gotten away with almost two million dollars. The police had no suspects and were asking people to call in for a big reward if they knew anything. Ángel glanced up and down County Road 6. Better to escape and be with his beloved than to have dirty money.
The newscaster flashed a sudden update on the story. Police were looking for a large White male, thirty-five to forty years old, for a murder in Tucson. Ángel felt a chill enshroud him. The White male suspect had a deformed left hand and was missing two or three fingers. He reached for the silver cross necklace around his neck. The victim was a twenty-year-old Mexican woman. She was found with a broken neck, in a burned out blue Chevrolet LUV pickup truck. She had no known connection to her believed assailant, the large White male with short hair and a deformed hand. If anyone knew anything about the incident, they were to call Detective Max Muñoz at the police department in Tucson.
“The woman worked as a waitress at the El Charo restaurant in Tucson…”
Ángel felt his heart being squeezed, then crushed by an unseen force.
“…she has been identified as Juanita Melindez.”
Ángel screamed and bolted from the car. He ran until his knees buckled beneath him. Choking on bloody vomit and stricken with grief Ángel was unable to lift his heavy head. He felt nothing but hatred in his broken heart; he cursed eternal revenge upon the Diablo Blanco.
34
Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele stood less than fifty feet away from the abandoned trailer, weapons drawn.
“I don’t see anyone,” whispered Sheriff Hanks. “I’ll sneak around back. Cover me. Keep an eye on the front door.”
Crouching low and trotting quietly alongside the trailer, Zeb stopped suddenly, shot upward like an alert chipmunk and poked his head up to the lower edge of a window. Looking back at Deputy Steele he shook his head and moved to the next window. Each of the four windows of the trailer brought the same response. Zeb signaled Kate to remain at the west side of the trailer and edge near the door. His hand signaled her that he was going in and to draw close, just in case. With that he smashed through the back door using his shoulder. The trailer was abandoned.
“The coast is clear,” he shouted. “They’ve high-tailed it out of here.”
Kate joined him inside the trailer. Empty tequila and whiskey bottles, crushed beer cans, dirty dishes, fast food wrappers and cigarette butts were everywhere. Two sleeping bags were in the living room, each haphazardly heaped into a pile.
“Somebody’s been here recently. I’m sure we’ll find enough prints to ID them. Deputy Steele, get on the radio. Call the state prison up in Florence Junction. Talk to the warden. Find out who Ángel Gómez was friends with in the joint. See if you can connect him to a big white guy with missing fingers. I’ll use the two-way and have Helen call Police Chief Haugerud in Morenci to let him know what we’ve got going on here. Bring the county map from the glove compartment when you come back.”
Kate raced to the cruiser. Zeb
continued his search of the trailer. As Zeb stepped on one of the sleeping bags, he felt something with his foot. Reaching in, he pulled out a notebook. Inside were pages of definite proof that they were at the right place.
Kate was back in minutes.
“What did you find out from the warden?” asked the sheriff.
“I was lucky. I got right through to him. He had heard about the robbery on the news. He knew exactly who I was asking about. Ángel Gómez ended up under the wing of Jimmie Joe Walker, a career criminal with everything but murder convictions on his rap sheet. He fits the description--six four, two hundred forty pounds, missing three fingers on his left hand. He’s got an IQ of 160, but he’s a sociopath and psychological deviant. Coincidentally, they were both on the same cell block as your brother.”
This information was news to Sheriff Hanks. He shuddered at the possibility of his miscreant brother being involved with all of this.
“According to the warden Walker abused Ángel and just about everyone else around him. He ran the cell block like a dictator when he wasn’t pumping iron and reading up on explosives and bomb making in the prison library.”
“What did the warden say Jimmie Joe had on Ángel?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Ángel’s a hard core alcoholic. Walker controlled the contraband, including booze.”
“Did Helen get anything from Chief Haugerud in Morenci?”
“Yes,” said Deputy Steele. “Helen told him what we’ve got and he told me what they’ve got.”
“What is it?”
“Someone saw two men prowling around the alley behind the credit union a little after midnight.”
“They get a look at them?” asked the sheriff.
“White male, tall, Native American or Mexican male, short. They saw them getting out of an oversized pickup truck, the kind set way up off the ground. The description of the truck matches exactly the one stolen two weeks ago in Tucson.”
“The same day the Chevy Vega was stolen,” interrupted the sheriff. “Probably the same Vega that’s been seen multiple times around these parts being driven by a young male that appeared to be either Mexican or Native.”
“Deputy Steele, where would you go?”
The sheriff scoured the notebook.
“What?”
“If you had a million bucks?” asked the sheriff. “Where would you go?”
“I suppose I would leave the country as quickly as possible,” replied Deputy Steele.
“How about if you stole a million bucks and this was your starting point? Right here at this trailer. You have a million dollars in cold, hard cash. Where would you go so no one would find you?”
Deputy Steele took no time in answering.
“Instinct would tell me to head straight for the Mexican border. But that is what the authorities would figure as well. Any criminal would have to assume the state police and federal authorities would be thinking the same thing and have that escape route covered with an APB.”
“Even young Ángel probably has that figured out,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“The second place I might think of going is north onto the reservation, at least until things cooled off a little bit. There aren’t many people up there. There is plenty of open space and more hiding places than anyone could ever get at. Everyone knows the tribal police aren’t much for cooperating with outside agencies.”
“Do you think Eskadi would work with us, help us get tribal police cooperation on this one?”
“I doubt it. I am sure he views this as the evil White man’s corporation getting what’s coming to him.”
“Even if one of the thieves was White?”
Deputy Steele could only shrug her shoulders. Sheriff Hanks understood her meaning.
“Deputy Steele, call the Border Patrol. Have them be on the alert for a twenty-one-year old Mexican, about five foot four, a hundred fifteen pounds, feminine looking, long hair, drinking problem and a white male, thirty-five to forty years of age, six foot four, two hundred forty pounds, with missing fingers on his left hand. Let them know they should be considered armed and dangerous.”
“Yes, sir.”
Deputy Steele once again raced to her vehicle and relayed the information. Sheriff Hanks walked slowly down the driveway of the trailer. He pointed to the ground as Deputy Steele joined him.
“We know they’ve got at least two vehicles,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Look at the two sets of tracks. One is oversized and the other undersized and bald on the outer edges.”
“One for each of them. They probably split up the money and headed in opposite directions,” added Deputy Steele.
“Maybe, but think about it for a second,” said Sheriff Hanks. “According to the warden, Jimmie Joe Walker is a sociopath with a genius IQ. For the last two years he has been psychologically and likely physically abusing Ángel routinely. I think I know where we might be able to find them both.”
“You’re a step ahead of me, Sheriff. Where?”
“Jimmie Joe could complete the circle of his crime by returning to Felipe Madrigal’s house. Ángel grew up there. It’s where Jimmie Joe coerced the old man to give up the floor plan of the credit union, and it’s where he got Felipe to call in the bomb threats. It would be the perfect way to further psychologically abuse Ángel,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Jimmie Joe is clever and cunning. He is also a fucked up head case. He might be taking Ángel back there to kill him. That way he would get his kicks from abusing Ángel one last time while ridding himself of the one person who could truly rat him out.”
“It would also be a way to torture the old man forever,” added Deputy Steele. “What’s the quickest route to Madrigal’s house?”
“We can head cross country on a couple of back roads and catch County 6,” said Zeb. “Ángel and Jimmie Joe might be there now.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” asked Kate.
“Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five.”
“Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
Zeb called Josh Diamond on his cell phone. The service was spotty but he got through.
“Meet Deputy Steele and me at the Madrigal place.” He filled his old border patrol pal and expert tracker in on what was going down. “Bring your dogs. We’ll need them.”
A steady southerly crosswind blew Zeb’s dust and dirt trail away from Kate’s trailing car as they headed west. At County Road 6 both vehicles turned north.
Sheriff Hanks assumed that either one or both of the suspects were going to be in the oversized vehicle heading up the old Indian Flats Mine road, with a disappearing act in mind. He had Josh Diamond bring his dogs as he was expecting they would ultimately end up tracking the criminals on foot. Sheriff Hanks’ car-to-car radio buzzed.
“Eskadi told me the tribe has done a quite a bit of work to make sure no one drives on that road,” said Deputy Steele. “The Apache don’t want anyone in there, especially us.”
“By making the road impassable, Eskadi may have inadvertently done us a favor,” said the sheriff.
At the Madrigal house Sheriff Hanks pulled over and took a rifle from the trunk. Deputy Steele pulled in behind him.
“I don’t see any signs of life,” said the sheriff.
They both knew the layout of the Madrigal place. The wind died down. A strange atmosphere permeated the homestead. Inside the house the trail became red hot.
“The blood in the sink and on the towel is fresh,” said Deputy Steele
“And so was the vomit in the ditch.”
The lawmen turned to see Josh Diamond standing in the doorway.
“Based on two fresh sets of tire tracks,” said Josh. “I’d say you got a big truck and a small car that have been here recently. Whoever was driving the small car is wearing tennis shoes. And, from the upchucked bile and blood, I’d say there is a pretty good chance he’s got an ulcer. Care to bring me up to date?”
Zeb pulled the map from his back pocket and laid it out on the kitchen table.
&nb
sp; “The tracks head north at the end of the driveway,” said Josh. “The most likely route is County Road 6 to Indian Route 11. If they make it onto the reservation, they have a thousand places to disappear.”
“I don’t like the sounds of that,” said Zeb. “We’ve got to see to it that they don’t make it. We don’t want to lose them up there.”
“What about this old mining road that goes up to Indian Flats?” asked Josh.
“None of our vehicles are going to get far on that road,” said Zeb. “After three or four miles it’s in real tough shape. We likely will end up on foot.”
“My guess is that’s where they are going. If they took off down that road, it won’t be hard to tell. Let’s go have a look. Deputy Steele, you go with Josh. Josh, follow me.”
A broad grin swept across Josh Diamond’s face.
“Just like old times, eh, Zeb.”
The sheriff tipped his cap and hopped into his vehicle. The look on his face was dead serious.
35
The twenty mile trip to the old Indian Flats Mine road gave Deputy Steele time to let Josh in on her theory concerning the guns stolen from his store. In addition, she gave him the details she had on Jimmie Joe Walker and his pathological mindset. When she explained they would likely be hunting the men on foot, Josh’s demeanor became intensely focused.
“Understanding human nature is an art as well as a science,” said Josh. “Human behavior is as varied as the individual. From what you’ve told me, tracking down Jimmie Joe Walker will be like hunting a rabid coyote. Ángel will be like stalking an injured rabbit in his own territory.”
His directness about human hunting led Kate to ask the question, “How does it feel to track someone knowing you might have to shoot them?”
“My shooting days are over. After six months in Kuwait I vowed never to point a weapon at another human being,” he answered. “Working for the border patrol confirmed that decision.”