by Don Travis
“And in the morning, you swiped a pie from a house in the neighborhood,” I said.
His mouth dropped. “I didn’t swipe it. I left a twenty-dollar bill. I paid for it.”
Apparently Widow Ingfield had neglected that part of the story when she titillated the neighbors.
“Why did you take the time to grab your bag?” I asked.
“It had my billfold in it. All my money. I’d brought a lot of money along in case… in case—”
“In case you wanted to stop using credit cards and drop off the radar,” I finished for him.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Why didn’t you go back for your car?” Aggie asked as I dialed Del on my cell to see if he’d come up with a better strategy for dealing with the FBI. The call went to his voice mail.
“I tried,” I heard Lando say. “But I couldn’t find it. I got all mixed up.”
I hung up and led him through the rest of his story. He had hiked back into Farmington and ended up out on the reservation when he went to a truck stop, intending to take a shower before hitchhiking or catching a bus west. But he saw Santillanes’s car cruising the street and slipped into the back of a pickup parked nearby, covering himself with a tarp. Still at the stage where he fell asleep easily—the head wound again plus the fact that he hadn’t had any decent rest in days—he dropped off and didn’t wake until the pickup began moving. Trapped, he stayed hidden and went wherever the pickup took him. He knew from the chatter coming through the open back window that the driver and passenger were Navajos. After a long time on the road, they stopped to open a gate, and that was when he slipped out of the bed of the pickup and hid in a gully.
Finally realizing he was about to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, Lando popped out of his hiding place, but by then the truck was bouncing down the dusty road, and he couldn’t make himself seen or heard. He’d tried to walk out but didn’t have the strength. Thirst was getting to him, further sapping his energy. He spent that night in the bottom of a sandy arroyo. Baking before the sun went down, he froze during the night, so he took all of his clothing from his travel bag and tried to cover himself. He finally dozed but woke when he heard someone above him on the lip of the gully. Panicked, he ran, abandoning everything except his billfold, now in his hip pocket, and his toilet kit. He’d held on to that, hoping something in it would provide moisture—his aftershave, his deodorant, anything.
“Why did you run?” Aggie asked. “Why didn’t you wait for whoever it was to help you?”
“Like I said, I panicked.”
“That was probably old One-Eye you heard,” Jazz said.
“Yes, Lando was the old man’s shape-changer,” I agreed.
Jazz pressed him. “But how did your shaving kit end up over by the Hernandez place?”
“The aftershave lotion made me dizzy and sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stand the taste of anything in there, so I dumped the kit when I got tired of lugging it around.”
“And somebody stumbled over it and traded it to Crespido Hernandez,” Jazz said. “Everybody’s a trader out on the reservation. Then Hernandez hocked it in Shiprock. What happened next?” He was caught up in Lando’s story.
“I finally found the highway and waved a pickup down. I gave the driver twenty dollars for a ride and some water. He threw in a thermos of mutton stew.”
Lando had blundered into one of the homeless hangouts by accident and slept in one hobo junction or the other for a few nights. Some men came asking questions about him, but nobody gave him up. Then Santillanes came, and he got scared and slipped away. He avoided the homeless places until he got rolled in the alley in downtown Farmington. After that, everything was sort of fuzzy. I understood; he’d been kicked in the head and injured again.
Further prodding failed to bring out anything else pertinent, so it was time for that hard question. The one Aggie had been itching to ask.
“There’s something I don’t understand. Presumably, you still had your cell phone and some money, so—”
“Not my cell phone. I lost it somewhere.”
“Okay, but you had money, at least until you were rolled. And you had your credit cards. Why didn’t you call your family for help?”
Lando tensed. In the uncertain light of the small campfire and the glow of a lantern near the far wall, he looked like an adolescent asked a trick question on a pop quiz. Bewilderment shone through the grime matting his face and clinging to straggly whiskers.
“Why didn’t you?” Aggie prompted. “I would have come for you in the Mitsu.”
“I… I don’t know.” The words were anguished and sounded true, but his body language said otherwise. His frame folded in upon itself. The squared shoulders rounded, the slender neck sagged. He lowered his head until his eyes were no longer visible. His fists clenched the filthy fabric of his trousers. After a moment’s silence, he roused himself, sitting up straight to eye us defiantly. “I… don’t… know!”
The interview was effectively over, but Aggie wasn’t satisfied. He asked the same question two or three different ways, but Lando, his eyes shifting wildly, clung stubbornly to his story.
I watched the interplay for a moment before slipping outside to huddle with Henry. He nearly scared me out of my wits as he rose up off the desert floor right beside me when I softly called his name.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed, jumping sideways.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Anything?” I scanned the darkness blindly. The only light came from a couple of billion stars sparkling overhead. There was no sign of a moon.
“All quiet.”
“Okay, you can go back inside now. And thanks.”
I didn’t know he had left until I caught the glow of the lantern as he slipped past the blanket to enter the hogan.
It was almost two in the morning when I headed back to the Trail’s End. Despite the fact that there were not enough sleeping bags for everyone, Aggie insisted on remaining with his brother. Henry solved the problem when he decided everyone should take turns standing guard. After all, someone had already shot at both Jazz and Lando. And, of course, Lando had made an attempt to harm himself, although I felt that was behind him now. The challenges we threw at him in the session tonight had actually helped stabilize him.
I mulled over Lando’s story as I drove back to Farmington. Not everything made complete sense, but that could be rationalized away by a couple of thumps to the head. There was no question he’d suffered a concussion, probably a second time when Shirttail Bob Hawkins kicked him in the head. But it would take a powerful shock to the system to keep someone like Lando—who was one of the protected rich kids despite his admirable penchant for independence—from heading straight for the nest when he got into trouble.
He had not done what was natural, and that bothered me. Lando wasn’t on the best of terms with his father, but he could have called on Aggie. Why hadn’t he? Was the fox guarding the henhouse tonight?
I passed no suspicious cars. Nor was there a shadow on my tail unless he was driving in the darkness without lights. When I hit Main, the street lamps showed several blocks behind me totally clear of traffic. Of course, if someone had been tailing me in the darkness, he would know where I was headed and could have dropped back out of sight. My rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten since Aggie and I had breakfast yesterday morning. I was tired and hungry and frankly not functioning at the top of my game. I stopped at a mini-mart and picked up a tuna on rye. Not my favorite, but at least it shouldn’t be dried out like some of those prepackaged meat sandwiches were. After a quick snack, I planned to head for bed—for a few hours, anyway.
There was no convenient parking space at the Trail’s End, but I took the closest one to the room and remained in the car to see if anybody showed up behind me. No one did. As I sat there, I suddenly missed Paul so badly it was almost physical. I yearned to pick up the phone and wake him but resisted the urge.
Instead I got out and wal
ked to the door of my room, alert for any sign of a threat. The world was muted. Even the traffic on Main was slow. Rap music drifted up from the all-night convenience store down the street. Otherwise, everything was peaceful. A bank of fast-moving clouds partially obscured a newly risen moon lying low on the horizon. The effect was disconcerting; even stationary objects appeared to move in the darkness. I put my key to the lock, took a final look around, and slipped into my room. As I turned to fasten the chain, something bit into my neck.
My body went rigid. My head exploded, and I dropped helplessly to the floor, fighting to keep control of my bodily functions. The old bullet wound in my thigh burned unbearably.
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Chapter 31
A NARROW beam of blinding light pierced my eyes, kicking off a splitting headache. But it was the light that focused me, brought me back from the edge of nowhere.
“He’s coming around,” the man behind the beam said.
A drawl. A south Texas drawl. Grappling for a sense of reality, I managed to snare that thought and hold on to it. Someone else mumbled, and I tried to turn toward the source of the sound.
“Hold it right there, partner,” the first voice said. “Just lay there like a good little puppy dog. Ain’t nothing over there for y’all to see. Let’s get down to business. Where’s the kid?”
“What you… do to me?” I rasped through a parched throat.
“Just a little old stun gun. Ain’t hurt you none. I answered you. Now you answer me.”
“What kid?”
Something touched the back of my hand, and my body arched. A powerful electric charge pulled a groan from deep inside me.
“Ain’t gonna be none of that, fella. Where is he?”
I tried to think, but the sinister black gadget with the big bite in the man’s left hand commanded all of my attention. The glare, I finally realized, was a penlight focused right between my eyes. I wanted to put up a hand to block it, but the effort was too much. I was exhausted. Beat.
“Tell me who,” I struggled to form a rational sentence. “Maybe tell you… where.”
“Fair enough. Orlando Alfano. Where is he?”
“FBI has—ungh.” I grunted as he zapped me again. “Damn it, stop. Can’t help if they—”
He touched me again, longer this time, and my body danced to the charge. I was growing weaker.
“We know they ain’t got the kid. They still looking for him.”
“Tonight.” I labored to get the word out. “Turned him over tonight. Where I was… coming from….” I sighed, unable to muster the energy to finish.
Far off, as though in a dream, I heard mumbling. It took a moment to realize the second man in the room was speaking. The thug with the stun gun reached for me. My flesh crawled, but he merely hauled my limp, boneless body erect.
“Okay, fella, y’all’s coming with me.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the hell I say, partner. Come on.”
As he spun me around, my knees buckled. I would have flopped on the floor had he not held on to me. A vague, amorphous thought floating around in my addled head gradually gelled into an old adage. Never, never get in a car with a kidnapper. You won’t come out alive. My hand reacted automatically, grasping the edge of the table near the window. The effort used up all of my remaining strength, but it moved. I strained against the man pushing me toward the door.
“Aw, fella, don’t be like that.”
The terrible pain came again. My muscles spasmed. I felt my mouth gape in rictus. I was vaguely aware of a loud crash as the table went over, banging against the wall. That was important. Something about the room next door.
“Fucking asshole,” my attacker mumbled.
Imagining that pernicious little box reaching for me, I attempted to roll to the side and reach for the gun in my waistband, but lacking control of my muscles, I sagged backward against him. Caught by surprise, he fell across the mattress, taking me with him. My flailing hand slammed against the lamp stand between the two beds. The telephone crashed to the floor. The lamp struck the wall and broke, eliciting a cry from the other room.
That was it. The room next door was Del’s. Still mentally floating in limbo, I laughed aloud at the realization.
I heard a muffled yell—in a familiar voice—and the door to my room suddenly banged open. A shadowy form fled into the night. It wasn’t the bozo with the electric charger; he was still pinned by my legs. But not for long. I sailed into the air as he literally threw me off and scrambled to his feet. As I flopped to the floor between the beds, he hesitated a moment before running after his companion, brushing past Del as he came charging into the room.
“Vince!” Del yelled, flipping on the light.
“Chase,” I squawked, flapping a hand that didn’t seem to belong to me. “Catch ’em.”
Del spun on his heels and scrambled out of the door, returning moments later. “Lost them. Two cars tore out of here at the end of the building, but I couldn’t see enough to identify them. What happened? Are you all right?”
“Think so.” He pulled me from the floor and dumped me on one of the beds. “Two men. Stun gun.”
As I fought for breath and my nerves began to settle, my fried brain cells struggled to assess the damage. Stun guns are not lethal. Powerful, but nonlethal. The electricity turned blood sugar into lactic acid, slowing and confusing muscle movement. Charges to my torso were the most debilitating; those on my arm and hand, while painful, were less severe. I was partially paralyzed but would be okay if I could just rest a little.
“I’m calling the police,” Del said.
I’d forgotten he was standing beside the bed. I nodded, and he picked up the telephone from the floor where it had fallen.
At that moment a voice shouted from the doorway. “Hold it. Don’t move a muscle.”
A youngster who looked all of seventeen stood in the open doorway holding a big, black semiautomatic pistol that wavered uncertainly back and forth between Del and me. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform with a “Four Corners Security” patch on the shoulder. The kid’s eyes, whites showing, roved all over the place as he tried to assess the situation.
“It’s ’kay,” I wheezed. “My room.”
Del took over. “His name is Vinson. This is his room. I’m Dahlman from next door. He was attacked by two men with a stun gun. You need to call the police.”
It took a minute for the security guard to act, but he finally reached for his radio and called in the situation. Then we all stood, or in my case lay, without moving, as if something would explode if we did. And it might have been the pistol the kiddie guard waved around. He relaxed only when sirens announced the approach of one of FPD’s Patrol Division units. I didn’t relax until a seasoned police officer came into the room and cajoled the kid into holstering his gun. I managed to get my body to cooperate enough to turn over and reveal my own revolver in the belt at my back. The cop confiscated it.
Del righted the table and put the telephone and broken lamp back on the lamp stand before he and the patrol cop dumped me into one of the room’s two padded chairs. Then I stumbled over my tongue while trying to relate what had happened. I finished just as the room phone rang. At a nod from the policeman, a barrel-chested veteran of about forty who wore a nametag reading Harrison, Del answered and a second later brought it over to me. My hand shook like a Parkinson’s victim as I brought the receiver to my ear. I mumbled a hello and then listened.
“How long ago?” I asked, and then told Jazz to hold.
“Del, Aggie took his brother. Need to… call FBI.”
Without questioning my conclusion, he turned to the policeman and asked him to contact FBI Agent Gaines. “Tell him the fugitive, Orlando Alfano, is in the company of his brother, Aggie. They’re probably heading for the Four Corners airport where Alfano has a Mitsubishi on tie-down. Detective Lonzo Joe of the County Sheriff’s Office should be informed as well.”
“They’re… coming from reservation. Jaguar rental. Green,” I managed to add.
As soon as Harrison was on his radio, I put the phone back to my mouth.
“You get that, Jazz? Did good, guys.” I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. “Now… go out to Black Hole. Take Henry. Be careful. If there’s a plane there and no guard, keep it on the ground. Let air… out of tires, okay?”
When Jazz said that was cool and hung up, my befuddled mind closed on something. Jazz had said his car was out of commission and Henry’s tires slashed. How would they get to Black Hole? He was a resourceful kid, so I assumed he had a plan. But why had he called on the motel phone? Why hadn’t he dialed my cell? I handed the receiver back to Del. “Find my cell.”
He located it on the floor beside a squashed tuna sandwich near the table I’d overturned. The phone was smashed, but the search for it produced more positive results. The thug who attacked me had hesitated because he’d lost his stun gun when I fell against him. It lay not two feet from my broken cell phone.
Harrison picked it up by the strap. “Glad he wasn’t wearing this around his wrist like the book says to. Otherwise he wouldn’t’ve dropped it. Oughta be able to get some good prints off this unless he was wearing gloves.”
“Not too clear… don’t think so.”
“That means he’ll run for the border. Leastways, that’s what I’d do,” the cop said.
I more or less returned to normal over the next few minutes as we gave a formal statement to the officer, but my stomach was giving me fits. We needed to get out to the airport—fast. I asked Harrison to escort us as soon as he finished asking questions and allowed Del to go back to his room to change out of his dressing robe.
THE FAR side of the airfield was abuzz with activity when we arrived. The two black SUVs probably belonged to Gaines and Plainer, but they’d also called on the local police for assistance. A squad car was parked directly in front of Aggie’s Mitsu. A sheriff’s unit sat below the left wingtip. Lonzo Joe was there as well. They all clustered on the ground near the open hatch where Aggie was engaged in a heated discussion with Gaines.