Server Down
Page 7
“Mad Dog would never do that.” Even as he denied the possibility, the sheriff wondered if his brother could have gotten into some bad peyote or screwed up a joke on Parker, not that Mad Dog knew where she lived.
“Funny,” Dempsey said. “Sergeant Parker also says it couldn’t have been him. But I’ll tell you what I told her. Even a city the size of Tucson is going to have a limited number of whacked-out, body-painted shamans running around assaulting people with edged weapons on any given night. That’s why I issued an armed and dangerous warning to my people a few minutes ago, along with an order to use all necessary force. You understand me?
“Shoot first, ask later. Yeah,” the sheriff said, “that’s clear enough.”
“You deliberately overstate my orders, Sheriff English, but if you want to see your brother taken alive, you better inform him to just stop, wherever he is, lie face down with his arms and legs spread so it’s clear he’s no threat, and not move while you notify us where to find him before we do it ourselves.”
“I will, Chief Dempsey, if he calls back. You’ve got his cell phone so I can’t contact him. He hasn’t called me since I talked to your detectives.” The sheriff purposefully left off mentioning that his daughter was holding on the other line.
“Then you better hope to hear from him real soon,” Dempsey said. “Because we will find him, and we will not let him get away from us again.”
There was suddenly a dial tone humming in the sheriff’s ear. He glanced at Mrs. Kraus and gave her a “not good” shake of the head as he punched onto the other line.
“Heather,” he said. “I hope to hell you ran because you’re with your uncle or know where he is. If not, they may be issuing a shoot-on-site order for you pretty soon, like the one they just put out on him.”
The second line was quiet for a moment. Then Heather said, “No, Daddy. I haven’t a clue. I hoped you’d tell me where to look for him.”
***
After they dropped off the last rider, Cherokee directed Mad Dog through a few blocks of neighborhood, then told him to turn north on Grande.
“That over there,” Cherokee explained, “used to be Dunbar School. It’s where all the Black kids went back when Tucson was segregated.”
“Arizona had segregated schools?” Mad Dog hadn’t thought of this as part of the Old South.
“Yep. And on your left is Estevan Park. It had the only pool colored kids could use. You know who Estevan was?”
Mad Dog was considering the question when Cherokee told him to turn east on Speedway.
“Estevan the Moor was a slave. Part of Cabeza de Vaca’s party, the first Europeans to enter this country.”
Mad Dog remembered. The Indians had considered Estevan a great sorcerer, too great to live when he led the way into Cibola ahead of Fray Marcos de Niza.
“And Tucson was part of the Confederacy in the Civil War,” Cherokee continued. “Lots of Southern sympathizers here back then, until the California Column marched across the desert and drove the Rebs out. Say, I bet you didn’t know the farthest west battle of the Civil War took place just north of here near I-10—place called Picacho Peak.”
Cherokee continued the history lesson as he directed Mad Dog east and north.
“I live in Sugar Hill,” the man said, “where rich Negroes moved while white folks got out of their way and beat it for the foothills. Wife and I, we got an apartment in this complex, just over here.”
It looked like a nice place with tall palms and neatly manicured vegetation. Mad Dog pulled in and Cherokee opened his door and climbed out, even though Mad Dog couldn’t see any vacant parking places.
“You can leave the car in the street, just down from the park there,” he said. “Let me go smooth the way for you with my old lady. We’re in two-oh-four, second floor on the left.”
Mad Dog watched to see which set of stairs his new friend took, then backed out onto the street and headed for where he’d been told to park. He chose a spot behind a white van. As he pulled in, the van suddenly accelerated out of its spot. Metal slammed metal as it encountered the vehicle in front and broken glass rained into the street. Mad Dog wasn’t thrilled with the idea of talking to the van’s driver while his face and hands were still covered in black body paint. Or with the inevitable call to police to investigate the accident. But the van had hit hard enough that someone could be hurt in there.
He opened his door and got ready to begin trying to explain himself. No one wanted to hear. All the doors on the van flew open and people began running every direction.
“What the…?” Mad Dog uttered.
For the longest time, no one answered. He walked into the street where the Chevy’s headlamps illuminated the damage, then went to the van’s sliding door and peered inside. It smelled of people and sweat and fear in there. A small voice addressed him from the darkness.
“Are you la migra?”
He couldn’t see her at first, for all the bags of clothing and jugs of water that had been left behind by the mass exodus.
“La migra?”
“Immigration,” she explained. She stepped forward from the back of the van—very young with long dark hair. “The coyote, our smuggler,” she said, “he saw you drive by, then turn around in the parking lot down the street and come back. He said you were Immigration and we would try to outrun you, only he panicked and lost control.”
She had her arms wrapped around herself. Though she was tiny and slight, he realized she was also very pregnant.
“Are you all right?”
“When we hit, our coyote, he told everyone, ‘Run! Save yourselves!’ But I couldn’t. I hit my head. I’m still…. How do you say it? A little wobbly.”
She stumbled over something in the dark and fell forward. He caught her and her big dark eyes peered up into his.
“If you’re not Immigration,” she said, “why wear all that camouflage paint?”
***
Captain Matus wasn’t surprised when Heather ran. He’d been expecting it. In fact, once he got used to the idea that TPD was going to let her go home with Ms. Jardine—under watch—he’d been counting on it. He’d set up an observation post a block from the residence where he could keep an eye on the most likely exits from the building. Then he’d sat and sipped coffee and listened to the scanner, waiting for a report of the girl making a break for it.
He saw it happen about when he’d expected. Long enough for whoever was on watch to settle in and get comfy. Long enough to believe she might have gone to sleep. But not so long as to let Tucson begin to wake up.
There was no doubt in his mind that Heather English was covering for her uncle. Maybe she didn’t believe the man was a killer, he’d grant her that, but he was sure she knew where Mad Dog was, or where he was likely to go. And Matus was sure, if she slipped past TPD’s watch at the house, she’d lead him right to the man who’d murdered his officer.
TPD scrambled units to look for Heather English. But by then she was in her car and on the street. She’d even, cleverly, slipped into another neighborhood to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Matus pulled into the same neighborhood a couple of blocks later. Then he asked his cousin where she was going. His cousin worked for the car rental company Heather English had used when she arrived in Tucson. Over the years, and this close to the border, the firm had discovered it was a good idea to install GPS devices in their cars. His cousin was an assistant manager. Actually, considering how complicated the Sewa godparent relationship system was, Matus was related, one way or another, to nearly every member of the tribe.
As a favor, and it was always a good idea to be owed a favor by a captain on the tribal police force, his cousin had gone to the office and was monitoring the GPS on the English girl’s car. That way, all Matus had to do was sit and listen to his cousin’s instructions on the cell phone. He followed her out of the second neighborhood a mile north of where she’d entered it. After that, she went west, down Grant Road, back toward Pascua Village.
A few minutes later, he was back on Grant and heading west again. Her tail lights were far ahead, or, what his cousin told him had to be her tail lights. She surprised him by how close to Pascua she went. He hadn’t thought Mad Dog would be anywhere near the scene of the crime.
Her car stopped several blocks south of Grant, just off Oracle. It was near the sex shop Mad Dog had stopped at after the murder. Matus dropped down a side street that would intercept the one she was on and turned off his headlights while he was still a couple of blocks away.
He drove slowly after that—cautious not to encounter a drunken pedestrian or another car proceeding without lights. The neighborhood was mixed use, everything from low-grade industrial to cheap apartments. This long after “last call” in all the city’s bars, the area was dead. Nothing moved. There weren’t many lights in the residences he passed. He only saw one sign of life, a scruffy coyote, desperate enough after the long dry winter to extend its hunting range far inside the city limits.
Matus pulled to a stop half a block short of the intersection where his cousin reported the girl was parked. He had disabled his dome light earlier, so nothing but the sound of the door opening and closing could give him away. Alley or street? He was still considering when Heather English appeared in the glow of the streetlight that had nearly persuaded him to take the alley. He ducked behind a dumpster, a good thing, since she stopped in the middle of the street and looked in every direction. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back and howled like a wolf. The coyote he’d seen yipped a reply and a few distant dogs barked. Way off, something deep and eerie echoed her more accurately.
Was that a signal? Was this an attempt to find her uncle and his wolf-dog? He had no idea. Before he managed to come up with any other possibilities, she began jogging down the center of the street, heading east.
Matus couldn’t follow her in his car, not after she’d abandoned hers. That would be too obvious. It didn’t take long for him to regret his choice of footwear tonight. His custom-made cowboy boots with the fancy stitching were wonderfully comfortable for standing or riding, but these boots weren’t made for walking the way Nancy Sinatra’s had been in that long ago hit song. And they sure as hell weren’t made for jogging across Tucson.
***
I believe I can keep you employed for the foreseeable future,” the professional’s client said.
“Oh?” The client was a major problem. The man had found him when he shouldn’t be findable. And the man had failed to provide him with crucial information—sending him to scare a cop without knowing she was one. What other information might not be delivered? On the other hand, the longer the client kept him working and stayed in touch, the easier it would be to back track him. The professional already had people working on that.
The client failed to note the chill response his announcement received, or didn’t care. “This Mad Dog operation, it’s turned much more complicated than it started out.”
For the professional, as well. He had expected to be on an airplane to the Cayman Islands by now.
“There are some people in Kansas I want you to punish for me. And one in Las Vegas.”
“In what fashion?”
“Some unpleasant and memorable incident. I’m not sure I want them killed, but I want them to suffer.”
“I can arrange something.” That part might be enjoyable, but he had already set the wheels in motion. His researchers would find out who this client was. As soon as they did, he’d cease fulfilling contracts for the man and begin a personal operation against him.
“And the good part is you can start right there in Tucson, while you’re seeing that Mad Dog isn’t taken alive.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Mad Dog has a brother.”
The professional knew that. He’d found out as part of his inquiries as he prepared for the original job. He didn’t say anything, though, and the client continued. “A half-brother, actually, but they’re close. Mad Dog’s death will hurt him, but I want him to suffer more.”
Ah, the professional thought. The daughter, Heather. Yes, this might be interesting.
“He has a daughter visiting Tucson now. She has managed to slip the loose reconnaissance the police had on her and is missing—presumably, searching for her uncle. Do you think you can find her?”
“Yes, I think I can manage that.” He’d watched her jog into that deserted intersection and stop to howl only a few moments before. That he was close to her was a pleasant coincidence. He’d decided the best way to get to Mad Dog was to let Captain Matus do the finding. So he’d used one of his many resources to discover the Sewa had staked out the house where the girl was staying. And, after that, where she led him. Cops never expected to be followed. Trailing the Captain as he tracked the English girl had been simple. Now his new target was trotting down empty streets just a few blocks away.
“What do you want me to do to her?”
The client laughed. “Something humiliating and painful,” he said. And then he became very specific in a way that surprised even the professional.
“Done. What do I need to know about her?” The client had already failed to mention that her father was a sheriff. She was some kind of honorary deputy. His question was a test of whether the client would supply that information. The professional should be told when any target was in law enforcement.
“Her name is Heather English. She’s smart, she’s attractive. Do you need a picture of her?”
“No.” So, the client would continue to edit relevant data. No surprise, but more reason to find him sooner rather than later. “I already know what the girl looks like. I saw her at Pascua.”
“Good. How soon might I expect results on this? And on Mad Dog? I’ll pay a twenty percent bonus over your usual fee if the girl is taken care of before dawn.”
“Thirty percent and I’ll do it within the hour.”
“Done,” the client said. And, before he hung up, “Enjoy yourself.”
The professional intended to. Heather English was a very attractive young woman. Not that attractive young women aroused him. Their pain and fear—now that was another matter.
***
Sheriff English had told Heather to turn herself in. He knew she wouldn’t, though she hadn’t come right out and admitted that. It was why he told her where Mad Dog had been when he called, and how long ago. If the only way she’d turn herself in to the police was with, and assuring the safety of, her uncle, then maybe helping her disobey would get both of them out of danger. He didn’t know.
It was tough, being half a continent away from the action, and hardly able to get around because of his spinal injury. Especially since there was so little he could think of to do at this hour. Hardly anyone was up and about in Kansas or Arizona to help him find people, even if he figured out who he should find and how they could assist.
As the sheriff made three calls in a row to Pam Epperson in Las Vegas, and found the line busy each time, Mrs. Kraus used the other line to throw questions at someone from the company that owned War of Worldcraft. Surely, if anyone could tell them who was hacking their system, it was WOW. But, Mrs. Kraus had told him it was slow going. First, she was switched from person to person, and that only after she finally succeeded in getting a real human being on the line. WOW didn’t keep many decision makers on duty in the wee hours, they told her. And, so far, that had proved true. She hadn’t found anyone with the authority to give her any information. The angry young man she had on the line now—the tech trying to bring their server back online—had said he should hear from a supervisor soon. He didn’t much care about the legal niceties himself. He just wan
ted to find the hacker who’d brought the game down—that, and keep his job.
While Mrs. Kraus argued, the sheriff dug through files until he found a recent number for Deputy Parker—Sergeant Parker, back down there in Tucson. She was the best deputy he’d had in all his years as sheriff. When she applied for a Benteen County job he’d known she was running from something. No way someone with her skills would take a low-paying job in rural Kansas otherwise.
He’d checked to see what it was, of course. She’d done her best in a terrible situation during her first stint in Tucson, but a hostage died because she wasn’t clairvoyant. The sheriff hired her, knowing the odds. The guilt might wash her out, even in Central Kansas. Or she’d find a way to work through it. If that happened, she’d move back where they supported law enforcement with technology and decent salaries. Either way, he’d known she was temporary. Invaluable, though, since facing her demons had put her in a situation where she saved his daughters’ lives at the same time.
Finding Parker’s number didn’t help, since her line was busy the first time he called it, then there was no answer.
“Sergeant Parker should be back in soon,” an officer in Tucson told him when he called the department’s headquarters. “You want to leave a message on her voice mail?”
The sheriff asked the man to have her call him as soon as possible. He tried Pam again and the line was still busy. English hung up his phone and wondered what to do next. He was thinking about joining Mrs. Kraus in her conversation with the WOW tech, but he didn’t even understand most of her side of the exchange. He knew he’d be hopeless with the geek on the other end.
The free line rang and he grabbed it.
“Englishman, it’s me, Pam Epperson. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Mad Dog and he’s not answering and now someone who claims to be a cop in Tucson has his cell and the guy started demanding I tell him how to find Mad Dog. I hung up on him. What’s going on? Is Mad Dog all right?”