by J. M. Hayes
The sun broke though the clouds for a moment, highlighting her perfect body. It was as if he was being given one last reminder of what could be his if he’d just go back and let her nibble his apple. It was tempting, enough so that Mad Dog had to make himself face the street again and remind himself how much he loved…ah, Pam. Yeah, Pam.
Grijalva could get her keys and the Mercedes and be after him in a minute. He wasn’t sure how many times he could say no. He cut left at the first cross street, dodged between a couple of houses, and set a healthy clip down a deserted alley.
Mad Dog pulled out his cell phone, turned it on again, and wondered who to call. He had some messages, but he wasn’t going to stop running until he found a place to hide or felt safe or just couldn’t keep going. Which, considering his pace, might not be long at all.
The girl was spectacular. Mad Dog couldn’t remember ever having said no when a similarly willing temptation offered itself. Pam owed him one, he thought, and then decided that was an opinion he’d best keep to himself. In fact, if the segment of his anatomy—the one trying to persuade him one quickie wouldn’t really count—ever rose in memory of the fabulous Ms. Grijalva, so be it. He’d share the occasion with Pam, but not the cause.
A pair of dogs followed him behind a chain link fence and sang Christmas carols. He realized they were the first thing he’d heard since Grijalva called after him. Other than his strained breathing. No people, no traffic, nothing but a few tall buildings to remind him he was in the heart of a city of a million people. He slowed and tried to catch his breath. Somehow he’d punched a number. His cell phone had called someone. That person was saying “Hello.”
“Hi,” Mad Dog managed to pant.
“Who is this?” the voice demanded.
That was exactly what Mad Dog wanted to know, too.
***
The professional and Nardo crossed the border in Nogales using the DeConcini checkpoint. There were no problems. The professional’s paperwork was in order, and he had left most of his lethal weapons in Mexico. It would take a very thorough search to discover the others.
Cowboy’s son, Nardo, had brought plenty of weaponry. He’d stored it in a variety of compartments someone had neatly fitted in the Buick he drove. The professional thought Nardo wanted to use one or more of them to repay the humiliation he’d suffered in his father’s office. But, if the young man had revenge in mind, he disguised it well. Nardo was on his best behavior. The boy got a little uppity with the border guards who recognized and deferred to him. The professional knew a lot of money had paved their way into the United States.
Christmas Day—fewer crossers than usual. People were already with their families, their holiday shopping complete.
After clearing the border, Nardo drove to a parking lot behind the McDonald’s on Crawford. The spot wasn’t visible from the checkpoint. Nardo nodded toward a Chrysler 300 on the far side of the lot, nearly alone in a place that was usually jammed full of cars.
“That will be Palmer,” he said. “Mouse’s man. Our contact.”
“Yes,” the professional said. “I know.”
As the professional turned his head toward the Chrysler, Nardo reached into one of the Buick’s disguised compartments. The professional hadn’t moved his eyes when he moved his head. Nardo was a kid, impatient, picking the wrong time for his revenge. The professional’s hand snapped across the Buick like a whip and struck Nardo in the throat.
“I told you I’d hurt you if you troubled me again.”
Nardo made a noise. His hand came out of the compartment with a gun but the professional had no trouble taking it away. Nardo didn’t really want it anymore. Instead, he clawed at his throat because his larynx was crushed and he couldn’t breathe.
“I said I wouldn’t kill you. Just hurt you. Does it hurt, Nardo?”
Nardo made the sound again. His neck bled, though not from the professional’s blow. Nardo’s nails tore his own flesh in his frenzy to get air. And his eyes stared, wide, fear in them. Begging.
“I could save you now,” the professional said. “Open a hole in your trachea below where I hit you. If I do that, you’ll be able to breathe again.”
Nardo took his hands away from his bloody neck. He folded them together as if in prayer. He stared at the professional, pleading for his life.
“Oops! I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. I guess I lied when I said I’d only hurt you. I’ve decided to let you die.”
Nardo grabbed for the professional, but there was no strength in his grip anymore. The professional avoided Nardo’s hands, watching the life slip out of the boy’s eyes. Avoiding the blood, the professional opened the door and stepped out of the Buick. He pulled Nardo so the body lay across the console, invisible through the windows unless someone walked up to the car and looked inside. Even then, with the tinting, it would be hard to tell that Nardo was dead instead of just sleeping off a drunk.
The driver’s door on the Chrysler opened and a middle-aged man, thick in his shoulders and gut, got out. Thick under his left arm, too, from the pistol he carried. He looked at the professional and nodded. “I’m Palmer,” he said, stepping around the car to open the other door for the professional. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Smith. Mouse sends his regards.”
The professional shook Palmer’s hand, and sat in the offered seat.
“What about the Cowboy’s man?” Palmer asked. “I thought he was coming with us.”
“Change of plans,” the professional said. “He’ll wait here in case anyone follows us.”
“Not necessary,” Palmer said. “But Mouse says you’re the boss. So, if that’s the way you want it?”
“It is.”
Palmer had aimed the Chrysler out of the lot and turned toward I-19 by the time the professional asked, “Any word on Rabioso?”
“Which one? I hear the fruitcakes put the fake Rabioso in a velvet cage,” Palmer said, a smile in his voice. “The other thinks he’s disappeared. Mouse will tell you.”
And that was the end of their conversation. The car ate up the empty road, passing atypical markers indicating the narrowing distance to Tucson in kilometers instead of miles, and the increasing distance from Nardo’s corpse.
***
Tradition in Brad Cole’s family held that Niki, the baby of the family, got to put the first ornament on the tree every year. Until now, Niki had lived at home, so the Coles’ tree was always up and resplendent at least a week before Christmas. Brad couldn’t remember waiting this late. When he suggested putting it up before Niki arrived home, his father shot the idea down. Niki was the senator’s little girl. Nothing as special as tree decoration could take place without her. Brad had wondered aloud whether they would have a tree at all if Niki had put off her first college holiday visit until New Year’s Day. That got Brad one of those looks that made him think the senator could still write his son out of his will.
Brad and his father had an awkward relationship. For example, Brad didn’t think the senator thing was the big deal his father made of it. Albert Ellis Cole had just been re-elected to his second term—state, not federal. And he hadn’t emerged as a leader. The senator had voted for guns and against taxes and immigrants, but he’d refused to support Arizona’s birther bill requiring the President to prove his citizenship before appearing on another Arizona ballot. Brad was proud of his dad for standing up against that one. He liked to think his father might still turn into a moderate. The senator had even explained on the senate floor that the United States President could not logically be both a Communist and a Fascist at the same time. But that was one of the few things Brad and his father agreed on, so talking politics was something they avoided.
Niki was delighted to be the reason they’d waited to put up the tree. But after two strings of lights and half-a-dozen ornaments, she wanted to start opening presents and
eating turkey. Mom grumbled, but Dad gave in immediately. Whatever the senator’s little girl wanted. Brad could have been jealous, but he’d never been able to do anything other than adore Niki.
Niki gave her parents a pair of Cornell sweatshirts. Brad gave them books. His mother liked chick lit and cozy mysteries. His dad, political thrillers with a conservative bent. Niki got perfume, a cashmere sweater, jewelry, and an envelope. “A little treat for our favorite student,” the senator said. Inside it were reservations and brochures for a summer tour of Europe. Brad was impressed. His own gifts included a couple of dress shirts, some ties he’d never wear, and a small square box the senator handed him without comment. It contained a Rolex.
“Thanks,” Brad said, trying to make himself sound as enthusiastic as Niki had been about her gifts. Niki shot him a sidelong glance and a raised eyebrow, but then the phone rang and she grabbed it.
“Merry Christmas,” she said. “You don’t have to bring me a present. Cash would be fine.” Then the grin slipped from her face and she handed the phone to her father. “I don’t think the sheriff will bring me cash,” she said. “He wants to talk to ‘The Senator’—and right now.”
The senator gave his daughter a big smile as he accepted the phone, then said, “Maybe I should take this in my office.”
“I’ll go see if the turkey’s ready,” their mother said.
“What’s with the watch?” Niki asked. “I mean, I know it’s expensive, but it doesn’t hold a candle to what they gave me and, besides, it’s boring.”
“It’s a message,” Brad told her. “They gave me one just like it for my birthday, but I haven’t worn it. You know how I feel about ostentatious stuff like that.”
“And Daddy doesn’t?”
“Oh, he knows,” Brad said. “But he thinks I need to flaunt it to get my career headed in the right direction. This is his way of forcing the issue. Sort of a ‘wear it or else’ message.”
“Will you?”
Brad unbuckled his Timex and stuck it in a pocket. He slipped the Rolex on his wrist and winked. “Sure, today anyway. Don’t want to piss the senator off when I’m bringing a new girl over for his approval tonight.”
The door to the senator’s office opened. He stepped out, pale. Every ounce of Christmas joy had drained from his face.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Niki said.
“Governor Hyde has been assassinated,” the senator said. “I’ve got to…. I need to….”
But the truth was, Brad knew, there was not one thing the senator had to do. Or could do, even. He was important enough to be informed, but not important enough to be involved. He wasn’t in the line of succession. The legislature was in recess. The senator was just as helpless under the circumstances as any other citizen. And that, Brad understood, more than the fate of the governor-elect, was what had taken every breath of wind out of the senator’s sails.
***
Sheriff English stored Crabtree’s arsenal in the jail at the back of the Benteen County courthouse. He secured the guns in an eight-by-eight cell with the aid of a chain and a padlock. Most of the cells’ keys had gotten lost over the years. But that didn’t matter because nearly all the locks were rusted open or closed and the upper levels weren’t safe anymore. The roof had leaked back here for most of the century the building had stood.
The sheriff put off testing the Uzi, or any of the rest of the guns. Right now, he needed to find out who’d urinated on Crabtree’s crèche. Otherwise, sooner or later, Crabtree and Conrad were going to have a confrontation and, short of sitting on one or the other, there was no way the sheriff could prevent it. But where to start?
Crabtree’s high wattage decorations invited pranks. That was why Crabtree had chained Jesus in place. The sheriff supposed he could eliminate half the county’s residents because they lacked the appropriate plumbing required to leave a message in that particular manner. Otherwise, nearly every male in the county was under suspicion. Except the Conrad boys. The sheriff had looked in Roy Conrad’s eyes and believed him.
With no immediate idea on where to begin his investigation, short of going back over to Crabtree’s neighborhood and knocking on every door, he stepped into his office. Mrs. Kraus was at her computer, slaughtering hordes of enraged pansies. Lavender, white, yellow, blue—it didn’t matter. She was making them bleed. Her fingers flew on one side of the keyboard and her right hand skittered about directing the mouse, clicking little rows of colorful squares that seemed to cause her on-screen character to throw thunder bolts and flames and strange bursts of light into the advancing floral assault. The pansies dropped charred petals in their tracks. It was like watching a really high-quality animated feature film, the sheriff decided, except Mrs. Kraus wasn’t just watching, she was part of it.
He cleared his throat.
“A minute,” she said. “Gotta do some pruning.”
“Okay,” the sheriff said, “but….”
“Shhh! Gotta concentrate.”
Something fat and fluffy slipped in and out of visibility at the corner of Mrs. Kraus’ screen. While it was there, it was teddy-bear cute, except for the expression on its face and the pair of intricate swords in its cute little paws.
“What about….” the sheriff began, but Mrs. Kraus shook her head and made an angry noise as she laid into the pansies again.
The last one fell, spilling chlorophyll into the soil at Mrs. Kraus’ avatar’s feet. “There,” she said, and began to swivel her chair to face the sheriff.
“Uh,” the sheriff began. But whatever he’d been about to say was drowned out by the shrieking attack of the bladed bear.
Mrs. Kraus swung back to the computer, stabbed a key, but not before the bear stabbed her avatar. Repeatedly. Mrs. Kraus’ avatar, which the sheriff had noticed was unusually young and trim and attractive, resembling its owner only in hair color, slumped to the earth as the teddy bear laughed and began dancing on Mrs. Kraus’ corpse.
“Damn,” she said. “Ganked my toon again.”
The sheriff decided not to ask what that meant. “I don’t supposed anyone else has called to complain about having holiday decorations vandalized?”
“Jeez, it’s just a wimpy level seventy-three Wereteddy, too. Wait till I catch up with that fuzzy bastard.”
“Ah…, complaints?” the sheriff reminded her.
“No, no complaints,” Mrs. Kraus said. “But one of the members of the church brought over the witness statements you asked for. I filed them. And he said something about the holidays being stressful and all. Mentioned something about hearing the Porters had some lights shot out on that American flag decoration they put up this year.”
“The Porters? Dave and Marian?”
“Yeah, six miles east and two south of the blacktop. Quiet sorts who keep to themselves and don’t bother anybody. Then somebody shoots their flag. That seems kind of over the top.”
The sheriff agreed.
Mrs. Kraus turned back to her computer and said, “You got to excuse me now. I need to rip the heart out of that teddy bear and make him eat it.”
***
A big guy stepped out of the crowd in front of Colors and approached Heather’s Toyota the moment she pulled up. He was exactly what you’d expect of a bandit biker—muscled arms bulging out of a sleeveless leather vest, tats, chromed chain belt. And hanging from that belt, a holstered pistol. Heather dropped her hand and unsnapped the strap that kept her SIG Sauer in place before she stepped out of the vehicle to meet him.
The big guy nodded. The heavy chrome rings in his ears made his lobes wobble. He smiled, displaying a gold incisor. “How can I help you, officer?”
She hadn’t exactly expected friendly from this crowd, but then she hadn’t expected to run into an armed guard before she even got out of her truck.
“I’m looking for the owne
r or the manager of this business.”
He surprised her and offered her his gun hand. “That’d be me. They call me Doc, though the name on my business license is Joseph Wall.”
His hand enveloped hers, but his grip was firm, not crushing.
“Heather English,” she said, “Sewa Tribal Police. You mind if I ask why they call you Doc?”
“Ph.D. in astronomy. Bikes are a hobby that kind of got out of hand. Oh, and what’s in this holster is a radar gun. Choppers that come in here, if they’re speeding, I raise my prices. It’s kind of a gimmick, but I’m trying to get our customers to change their image. I’m not trying to persuade bikers to change the way we look, but I hope to demonstrate to the general public that we abide by the law, same as everyone else. So, tell me, we got some kind of problem with the Sewa Nation?”
“Uh, no.” Heather felt embarrassed by the unsnapped strap on her SIG, now that she could see Doc’s holster didn’t contain a firearm. “I wanted to ask you about a ring you made here.”
“Make lots of rings. If it’s one of the skull and crossbones or the mock SS death’s heads, doubt if I can help you much. They’re too popular.”
“No. This one’s different.” Heather pulled out her cell phone, called up her pictures, and showed him a shot of the feathered-serpent ring, one she’d taken when it was off the severed hand.
“Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent. Aztec’s patron god of knowledge. Yeah, I remember it. That was a one-off. I thought we did a nice job on it.”
“Can you tell me who bought it?”
“Sure. Mousy little guy. Elvis Presley, he called himself. Couldn’t have looked less like the King if he tried. Wanna see the paperwork?”
Doc led her across the crowded parking lot, past people feasting on heaping plates of turkey and fixings, past kids hugging new toys, past a black-leather-jacketed guy in a Santa cap, passing out brightly wrapped boxes.
“You have an address?”
“No. That I remember. This Elvis is a little guy. Kind of skittish. Balding. Carrying concealed, too, if that’s of interest. Of course that’s legal now. I’ve got a phone number for him, but he never gave me an address. I didn’t care because he paid cash in advance.”