Dragonfly Bones

by David Cole

  We came out of the elevator, the aide asking somebody at the nurses’ station where to move me, and we started down another corridor.

  “So?” the aide said.

  “I mean, like, this doc is twisting and pulling and finally he gets the extraction tool where he wants it, he tells us get a firm hold, and he pulls out the green moss.”

  “Moss?”

  “Looked like moss. Like moss that was growing. So what the hell is that? I ask the doctor. A pea, he says. A green pea. Kids like to stuff peas up their noses. I figure this one had been there quite a while. It was growing roots. Here we are.”

  They wheeled my bed into a room, docked the bed in an empty space, and hooked up all their gauges without saying another word.

  A green pea, I thought. What would that be like, having one grow up your nose? I passed out again.

  36

  At two in the morning, the grogginess finally cleared enough for me to see that I was in a private room of the ICU. I got out of bed and peered down the hall at the nurses’ station. Nobody sitting there. I yanked the IV needle out of my arm, IV fluid spurting from the dangling tube and blood oozing from my arm. I found a roll of gauze, used my teeth to rip off several feet, wrapped it around the needle hole, and tied it tight.

  My clothes and belongings were all in a drawstring plastic bag. I checked quickly to make sure my cell phone was inside, then slung the bag over my arm with the gauze, covering it up in case I got stopped. But either the staff was helping other patients or on a break somewhere, so nobody confronted me. I edged up to each open door, looking around the corner to see if a nurse was inside. Most of the rooms were empty, the rest with sleeping people. At the very last room, a young girl with body piercing all over her face and ears was listening to an MP3 player. Without turning off the music or removing her earphones, she immediately recognized the bag across my arm, knew what I was doing.

  “Go for it!” she whispered.

  I could see inside her closet and I reached in to snatch a lightweight University of Arizona jacket and some blue sweatpants. She nodded okay.

  “Yo,” the girl said. “Some guy whale on you too?”

  Left side of her face horribly yellow and blue with bruises, a ring of marks around her neck.

  “You need money?” she asked.

  “I’ll make out,” I said. “Soon as I get a taxi home.”

  “Jesus, girl, don’t go home. You got to stop that beating, Jesus Christ, I mean, you looked like he threw a rope around you and dragged you through cactus. Besides, no taxi driver’ll take you into his clean cab. Here. I got lots of money.”

  Reaching under her sheet, between her legs, she pulled out a small leather bag. Without counting, she grabbed some bills and thrust them at me.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I can’t take your money.”

  “His money,” she said. “Drug money. If he hadn’t’a whacked me with my favorite alarm clock, if the clock didn’t get broken…but when he left for a drug sale I cleaned out his stash. Take it. Driver’s license. Credit card. Take it all.”

  She crammed the bills into my hand.

  “Give me your name,” I said. “Your address. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Girl, you got no more sense than a sack of hair. I been laying here, thinking of doing just what you are doing. Before he finds where I am, I’m moving east coast way. Change my name. Get a new address. Just keep the money. Use the ID. You get clear of your old man. Okay?”

  I found the exit. In the parking lot, behind a huge mesquite tree, I ripped off the open-back hospital gown and didn’t even bother with my blood-soaked clothing. And no blood seeping through the gauze, but I left it on. My arms and legs were covered with bandages, but once I put on the sweatpants and zipped up the jacket, I figured I looked presentable enough for the taxi I called for with my cell.

  Hesitating when he looked at my face, I tucked a fifty-dollar bill into his hand.

  “Just take me to the nearest car rental place,” I said.

  “Lady. Nothing’s open this hour of the night.”

  “Airport.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. They got that new facility open.”

  “Before we go there, I’ve got five hundred dollars if you’ll connect with somebody who can sell me a piece.”

  “A piece of what?”

  “A gun.”

  “Whoa, who you think I am, anyway?”

  “Any kind of gun. Handgun, shotgun. I don’t care.”

  He braked to a sudden stop in the parking lot. I thought he was going to ask me to get out of his cab, but he took a cell phone and made a call.

  “You there?” I couldn’t hear any answer. “Yo, just wake up, get that clean nine I’ve been storing under my bed. You cool with that, dude? Be there in fifteen.”

  He took me somewhere into South Tucson, a small street off Thirty-sixth where he blinked his lights and a young boy came to the car, handing the driver a paper bag.

  “You get some more sleep now,” the driver said. “I’ll be taking you to school in just a few hours.”

  He handed me the sack. A very worn Glock 17. I ejected the clip, saw it was fully loaded. I racked the slide, not knowing if there was a shell in the chamber, but since the Glock had no safety I was taking no chances. In spite of the age of the weapon it had been cleaned and oiled just recently. I rammed home the clip, racked the slide again, and lowered the hammer.

  “Five hundred’s a rip-off price, lady,” he said. “But I gots to support three kids, and five hundred is better than four days’ work.”

  “Just take it. I’ve only got about ten bucks left, so get me to the airport.”

  He counted the five hundred, thrust it into his pocket.

  “Airport’s free,” he said. “I might have expensive goods, but personally, I’m not a cheap guy. I won’t charge you for the ride.”

  An hour later, I was driving through north of Tucson past Oro Valley, headed on 287 to the warehouse. I had no specific idea where it was, but I’d seen the road sign, knew it was just off 287, knew it had to be south of Coolidge.

  I’d told the Avis clerk that I just got out of the hospital after my car had been blindsided by a drunk driver. “I feel much better than I look,” I said to the woman clerk, who seemed caught between wariness at my condition and concern that my face, a woman’s face, might be scarred for life. But all the ID checked fine, the credit card went through, and I drove off in a metallic blue Pontiac Grand Am.

  Somewhere south of Catalina I pulled over and called Brittles.

  “Jesus, Laura! Where are you? I’m going out of my head. I’ve already been back to the Arizona Inn, trying to find out what happened to you. And we never found out what happened to your daughter.”

  “I know where she is,” I said, “and I’m in a hurry to get to her.”

  At any other time in my life I’d have wondered at the depth of love and concern in his voice.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “At the camp. Don was here earlier, but when I went to get some food he’d left. Don’t know where he went.”

  “Just listen to me. Don’t talk,” I said, pulling back on 287. “I’m just going through Catalina. On 287. Head south of Coolidge. Look for a large warehouse, on your left side. A dirt road, maybe one hundred feet, to a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.”

  “Is your daughter there?”

  “I hope she’s still there.”

  “Who else?”

  “Galeano.”

  “Laura, Jesus Christ, Laura, just stop your car and wait for me.”

  “Can’t do that, Nathan.”

  “I’ll call the Florence and Coolidge Police Departments. The Pinal County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Call them from the road,” I said. “And if I get there first, you’ll see a metallic blue Pontiac Grand Am. I’ll be inside the warehouse.”

  “Laura, wait, I’ve got another call.”

  But I hung up and turned the cell off. I didn’t w
ant him ringing me every minute. False dawn light slowly came up in the east as I passed Catalina, and I slowed down to forty, thirty in those places where it was all desert. Twenty minutes later, I saw a sign on the right.

  PINAL COUNTY BRUSH CLEARANCE PROJECT

  I drove past, recognized the warehouse. I made a U-turn, went down the dirt road, and stopped at the gate. It was unlocked and open a few inches, which solved a huge problem. Getting back in the Grand Am, I pulled back the Glock’s hammer and stuck the gun in the small of my back. I ripped off all the bandages on my leg, rubbed several of the wounds to start them bleeding. I wanted Galeano to think I’d just come back from wherever somebody’d found me, that I was out of my mind, that I wasn’t clear-headed enough to be anything but a woman come to collect Spider.

  Ready, I backed up ten feet and accelerated ahead to ram the gate open, my hand on the horn button as I drove right up to the closed doorway. I kept blowing the horn until the electric door started to rise. I left the motor running, got out, left the door open. Galeano’s feet showed in the opening, and as the door went all the way up I first saw the Tek10 in his right hand and then the grin on his face.

  “You’re one helluva survivor, lady.”

  I half unzipped the jacket, pushing the sleeves up, taking care as if by accident to pull the jacket so that my left breast fell out. But none of this distracted him as he beckoned me toward him. Dried blood stiffened the left side of the jacket. I held my arms at my sides, vibrating my fingers. Aware that I was overcompensating for my fatigue, I had to keep some part of my body moving. I staggered, recovered my balance, wanting to be alert, calm, in control and ready to consider anything Galeano asked of me.

  “Zip that jacket up, Winslow. I could care less about forty-year-old tits. Just turn around. Slow.”

  I tried to pull out the Glock, but the hammer snagged on the band of the sweatpants and he clamped his free hand around mine to take the Glock away from me. He clicked the release lever, the clip falling to the ground. Pointing the Glock to our left, he pulled the trigger and the slide locked open after firing. He flung the gun thirty feet away and led me inside, rolling the door down shut.

  Spider stood behind Don’s wheelchair. Don’s hands and legs were bound to the chair with duct tape.

  “Surprise,” Galeano said. “I know, I said I was leaving right away. But I thought I could take care of my boys, at the camp. This old guy was the only person there. He runs his mouth a lot, told me way too much before he found out I wasn’t just another friendly dad coming to pick up a stepchild.

  “So I had to take this guy. Maybe he’s caused as much trouble as you or your boyfriend. I don’t much know, but I’m hoping the boyfriend shows up also. I want to clean up everything. That’s what this big woodchipper is good for. Run the four of you through the machine. No leg sticking out. Yeah, I saw that movie, too.”

  A car noisily braked to a stop outside.

  “And that’ll be him.”

  Somebody hammered on the roll-up door.

  “We’ll have to get ready.”

  Galeano quickly wrapped a long string of duct tape around Don’s neck and then around the barrel of an over-and-under shotgun. He ripped off another string of duct tape, wrapped it around Spider’s neck, and used it as a leash, holding it in his left hand while he gently laid the muzzle of the Tek10 against Spider’s neck.

  “Push the wheelchair,” he said to Spider. “Winslow, you walk in front. When you get to the door, open it.”

  The four of us moved slowly. I hesitated at the door, not wanting to open it.

  “Now or later,” Galeano said to me. “I don’t much care, as long as ‘later’ isn’t any more than two minutes.”

  I punched the red button and the door rose. Brittles stood outside with an AK-47, moving the barrel from me to Galeano, freezing, the AK-47 drooping a few inches before he snapped it back up.

  “Put it down,” Galeano said harshly. “Now!”

  Hesitating just a few more seconds, Brittles bent over and laid the AK-47 on the ground, stepping back several paces.

  “Take off your jacket,” Galeano said.

  Brittles hesitated even longer, but removed the jacket and threw it on top of the AK-47, turning around to show he had no weapon stuck in back.

  “Now the shirt.”

  Brittles stripped off his shirt quickly, tossed it onto his jacket. He turned around again, faced Galeano, waiting.

  “Drop your pants.”

  This time Brittles really hesitated and Galeano immediately shifted the Tek10 from Spider’s head to point it at Brittles. Undoing his belt, Brittles let his pants fall to his shoes, revealing an ankle holster. He removed a .32 revolver and tossed it on the pile with everything else.

  “Pull up your pants. But take the belt out. I want you holding your pants.”

  Brittles did this quickly, his face not moving at all, his eyes fixed on Galeano.

  “Okay. Let’s all go inside.”

  “No, Nathan,” I shouted. “There’s a woodchipper in there. That’s where all the bones came from. He wants to put all four of us into the woodchipper.”

  Sirens sounded from both the north and south. Galeano stiffened.

  “Ah, geez,” Brittles said. “Now what you going to do?”

  Three Tucson police cars pulled up from the south, swinging on the dirt road, cherry and blue lights revolving on the roof rack. Two cars came from the north, each with a single revolving red light on the roof. All cars fanned out around the entrance to the warehouse, policemen ducking behind open doors.

  “Don’t shoot!” Brittles shouted. “Everybody out there, don’t shoot.”

  Galeano seemed as calm as ever, but his eyes narrowed, I saw muscles flex in his cheeks as he clenched his jaws. His head moved slightly forward and he put the Tek10’s muzzle back against Spider’s head.

  “Don’t kill my daughter,” I shouted.

  Brittles grimaced, slumped his head.

  “Mother and daughter,” Galeano said. “I should have guessed. That just makes things all the easier. You men out there. Lay down all your weapons. Move away from your cars.”

  “They won’t do it,” Brittles said. “They’ll kill you first.”

  “No, they won’t. And besides, I’ve been shot seven times and stabbed at least twice. I prepared myself to die a long time ago, that’s why I’m still alive.”

  Brittles turned to the officers.

  “Do what the man says,” he shouted. Several of the officers put down their handguns and moved away from their cruisers. One man stayed, the muzzle of his shotgun laid on the edge of a door. “You. Drop the shotgun.”

  The officer rose up so his head was visible in the open window and without hesitation Galeano shifted the Tek10 and shot the officer in the shoulder.

  “Now what?” Brittles asked.

  “We’re all going to move into that green SUV parked inside here. You’ll drive. Winslow will get in the other front seat. You’ll fold down the backseats, and I’ll get in back with the cripple and the daughter.”

  Brittles quickly came in the building, seeing the SUV. He worked fast at lowering the rear seats.

  “It’ll be easier to do this with the wheelchair if I drive the SUV outside.”

  Since we were all standing by the door, and the SUV was in the back of the warehouse, Galeano nodded. Brittles started the engine, drove slowly and carefully out the door, and parked about ten feet past the concrete loading strip.

  “Go to all those police cruisers. Rip out their microphones. Open the hoods, rip off the spark plug wires,” Galeano ordered.

  I couldn’t understand why Brittles jumped so eagerly to doing whatever Galeano said. He worked furiously, flinging the mikes off into the desert scrub and ripping ignition wires out viciously with both hands.

  “Done,” he said finally.

  “Okay, everybody. We’re all going to get into the SUV.”

  As we moved just outside the door, Galeano stopped our little parad
e and looked off into the distance in all directions.

  “No surprises,” he said finally. “You should have warned these hicks not to play all their cards together. How far away, how long before more police come?”

  Brittles shook his head.

  “That probably means they’re close. Okay, let’s do this quickly. Brittles and Winslow, in the front seats. You, the daughter. Wheel the cripple up to the back and dump him in there somehow.”

  Galeano kept his fingers on both triggers until Don lay on the floor. Galeano gave a sharp tug on the shotgun, ripping the duct tape off Don’s neck. Spider stood near the hatch. Brittles nudged my knee with his hand, starting silently counting.

  One.

  Two.

  “Spider!” he shouted. “Get down, get down!”

  Spider dropped to the concrete, Galeano triggering the Tek10. He started to lower the weapon, but his head exploded like a pumpkin hit with a sledgehammer. Three seconds later I heard a crack reverberate across the desert floor.

  Brittles flung himself out the door, kicked the Tek10 away from Galeano’s hand before kneeling to feel his pulse, but most of his face was gone and I knew he was dead.

  “Seventeen hundred yards,” Brittles said to me. “I’ve never seen a shot like that. I don’t know how Justin Wong ever fit into your past, but he’s the guy responsible for being way out there to keep your future going.”

  Numb, probably about to go into shock, I just stared blankly at him. He pointed off North.

  “Up there,” he said. “In that little notch, between two hills. Justin Wong is up there with that long range sniper rifle. We counted on some luck, getting Galeano out into the open. Justin said it would only take one bullet.”

  He shrugged out of his windbreaker, laid it over Galeano’s pulped face.

  “Just over there…”

  Brittles pointed again to the notch, mouth slightly open, frown lines deep in his forehead, and I saw he was crying. He stood like that for a long time, until I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest and pulled myself up tight against his body.

  “What’s wrong, Nathan?”

  “Dead people,” he said finally. “Too many, too many…I can’t deal with dead people anymore.”