CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Moonlight soaked the box canyon in a cool pale light as Arthur walked away from the yellow Toyota. He had managed to find refuge for it behind a cluster of trees where it couldn’t easily be seen, though the white top and yellow body seemed to attract the moon’s reflected mixture of sunlight, starlight, and earthlight like a glow-in-the-dark football.
Not being familiar with the terrain of the canyon, Arthur stepped cautiously and purposefully as he moved quietly through the chilled night. Being sure to keep his breathing steady and relaxed, he held the Glock 19C from his shoulder sling comfortably in his right hand while feeling the recognizable weight of the other pistol resting on his right hip. Somewhere off in the distance a band of coyotes barked and howled, the trickster letting anyone and anything know they were there, lurking in the half-lit darkness. Arthur’s ears battled against the droning noise of well compressors, their collective chorus of mechanical harmony challenging his senses to detect any out-of-place noise. As he picked his way through the shadowy canyon, a dozen fragrances filled his nostrils, and he swore he could taste each one of them on his tongue. Was his apprehension from stalking John Sykes playing that much havoc with his senses? What if Sykes had already noticed him in the night? His night-vision scope could certainly have located him picking his way up the canyon. Arthur took a deep breath and moved even more cautiously, his eyes straining against the moonlight and the uneasiness in his head.
The only thing Arthur knew for sure was that he wouldn’t even hear the fatal shot, things would just simply turn black, and he would drift off into a dark world all his own to begin his journey to the next. At least the thought of Sharon not having to burn the house down (a Navajo death ritual) because he hadn’t died inside of it was comforting. He had put a lot of work and time into that house to turn it from his to theirs, and he was glad that she would still be able to call it home.
A hundred yards in, the craggy canyon broke to the right and Arthur could smell something other than the perfumes of the high desert. The slight acrid scent of smoke passed over his olfactory nerves and collected in his throat. John had lit a fire. Arthur thought that an odd behavior for a man on the run because a flame would surely lead someone to him, and he wouldn’t want to do that. Although it was an aroma that smelled good. It brought back memories of the times he and Sharon had gone camping in the Black Hills of South Dakota. They had pitched their cabin tent at a campsite, inflated the double high queen-sized air mattress—Sharon’s choice, not his—and laid the Cosmic blue sleeping bag built for two on top of its bloated surface. Sharon had set up their small collapsible table at the other end of the tent, and on it she’d placed a small propane-powered, two-burner camp stove, a blue enamel coffeepot, and all the other items she needed to bring their home with them on the trail. That was the last time she had been truly happy, he remembered, before everything had changed. A month later, the ordeal of Leonard Kanesewah would take place, and their entire life would spiral out of control.
The farther Arthur moved into the canyon, the more the symphony of compressors gave way to the sound of night crickets and the breeze that seemed trapped between the canyon walls. That, coupled with his soft footfalls, seemed to calm him as he moved toward the smell of rising and drifting smoke. The choir of coyotes continued to bark, cry, and howl at the full, round moon as if to give it company, its blotchy glowing surface staring back at them and saying nothing in return. Arthur began to notice the sandy and rocky brush-covered canyon floor was beginning to be lined with sporadic sections of volcanic rock that seemed to spread from black canyon wall to black canyon wall. This was not simply a box canyon, Arthur realized, but a subterranean canyon carved out by an ancient lava flow that had plowed its way through the landscape long before the oceans that had covered this part of New Mexico had receded.
He looked up toward a cluster of cottonwoods standing tall on what was left of the firm ground above the arched cave where the smoke was emanating. Moving closer, he began to make out the dancing flames and the large figure squatting next to it for warmth. The night had been turning colder, colder than normal, and Arthur’s lined denim jacket was having trouble fending off the chill that made the temperature feel like the middle forties instead of the ten degrees higher it should have been at this time of year.
Arthur was careful now not to make any sound that might telegraph of his approach. The closer he moved, the clearer his line of sight became. John Sykes was squatting in a thin, ribbed, new age jacket that made him look like a thinner but muscular version of the Michelin Man. Sykes lifted a cup to his mouth, then, as Arthur remembered him doing numerous times in the combat zone, pulled something from inside his jacket, unscrewed it, and slid a cigar into his open palm. After biting off the end, he used something to coax the fire from the pit and light the tip. After a few deep, satisfying inhales, Sykes blew smoke out over the fire with a relaxing whoosh.
Arthur stepped closer, keeping a watchful eye on John Sykes, and understanding this was going to be all about the element of surprise. He felt his heart pounding like a large powwow drum and his throat turning as rough as a dry wash in the middle of sweltering August. He knew before he had even made the drive out to the coordinates that he didn’t want things to end in a way that would haunt him for the rest of his life, along with the rest of the ghosts from his past; he wanted it to end in a way that would bring his brother the help he so desperately needed. But then there were Margaret’s boys to consider—Tsela and Tahoma. What justice would they receive knowing that their killer had faced no consequences at the hands of their adopted uncle or in a court of law? For that matter, how would Margaret react, knowing that her sons had not been avenged? Arthur took a deep breath and flexed his right hand around the Glock, then stood quickly.
Arthur shouted, “Don’t move, John!”
Sykes remained squatted and said in a calm voice, “Didn’t take long for you to get here with those coordinates I left for you.”
Arthur moved forward quickly, up the gradual rocky incline, and into the yellow glow of the campfire opposite John Sykes. Sykes continued to puff on his cigar at a leisurely pace while holding a cup of what was surely alcohol from the bottle of Southern Comfort sitting on the ground by his feet.
“How did you know I’d find them?”
“I left them where a Fobbit could find them. Besides, my girl called me after you and Sharon left the house and told me you’d found them.” He pulled the cigar from his lips with the fingertips of his right hand and held the smoke in his mouth, then belched it out when he added, “By the curious look on your face, I guess you didn’t think she and I were still communicating.”
Arthur said, “She gave the impression that you’d left her high and dry. She’s a pretty good actor.”
“She had to be convincing, sir,” Sykes acknowledged. “I wanna tell you, I didn’t kill those two boys, and I didn’t take any shots at you.” He lifted the bottle toward Arthur in a friendly gesture. “And I don’t know who did.”
Arthur declined the offering. “Open your jacket,” he ordered calmly.
Sykes put the cigar back in his mouth and set the bottle back by his feet, then moved his hands slowly toward the zipper, pulled it down until it released, and carefully fanned out the flanks of the jacket. “Satisfied?”
Arthur made sure he kept the 9 mm leveled. “I found evidence you were at the scene where the boys were killed, John.”
“How could there be evidence when I already told you I was never there, sir?” Sykes picked up his cup and took another drink.
“I found your fingerprints.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why are you lying to me, John? We have a history, man, but the evidence puts you at the scene.”
“I told you that’s bullshit!” Sykes stood, his eyes gleaming in the firelight, and pointed an index finger toward the ground in protest. “I was never there! Someone set me
up!”
“Why?” Arthur said. “Why would anyone do that? What the hell for?”
“I don’t fucking know, sir. Your guess is as good as mine. Pick a reason.”
Arthur looked around. “Where’s your truck and your weapons? Rosheen said you took them.”
Sykes turned his head and pointed with his chin to an area down the dark canyon. “Truck’s back there. You passed it on your way in. I tossed some desert camo netting over it.” He moved his head again and pointed into the cave with the cottonwoods above it. “Weapons are in there. Figured I might need them if whoever is after you came after me.” He pulled heavily on his cigar then tapped the ash into the popping fire. “You and me, sir, are in the same boat. We’re both being fucked.”
“What were you doing in Farmington the night before you came to see me in the hospital?”
“I was on my way back home from visiting my father. He lives there now.”
“Where?”
“A place called the Bridges of Farmington. One of those senior living places.” Sykes grinned. “Actually, that’s how I heard I was being framed for the kids’ murders—the guy who takes care of my dad has a son who works for the San Juan county sheriff. He told his old man, and his old man told me.”
“He could lose his job over that.”
“No shit. But the kid just told his old man in passing; it wasn’t supposed to go any further. He knows what I’m going through with my dad and wanted to give me a heads-up.”
Arthur said, “Can anyone confirm you were at the home during the time the boy’s were murdered?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he said. “It was Monday Night Football, so anyone sitting around us can verify I was there until I left.”
“And when was that?”
“Game came on after six and finished up after ten. I—”
“This is going to be easier than I thought,” a recognizable voice echoed from the darkness.
Both men turned as James Basher stepped into the light of the campfire. “You know, John, you really should be more careful about where you park that old Dodge of yours. I’ve had a tracker on it ever since you let us know about the lieutenant being in the hospital.”
“Bash, you fucker!” Sykes growled.
“I wouldn’t move, John,” Basher said, stepping closer, the 9 mm in his hand able to dispose of either one of them at any given moment. “I could drop you easily from here. How ’bout you, Lieutenant? You feelin’ lucky?”
Arthur stayed put. “What’s your deal in this, Bash?” he said. “What did Dayton promise you? You’re working for him, right?”
“A shitload of money, of course.” Bash’s grin gleamed in the flickering firelight. “All I had to do was kill a couple of Indians.” Arthur watched as Basher’s grin turned to a broad smile. “Pulling the trigger was like cumming in my pants.”
Arthur felt his jaw muscles clench as his right hand tightened harder around the grip of the Glock and his left hand curled into a fist. “And me? Did you miss on purpose or just fuck up?”
Bash tilted his head comically. “I just wanted to eliminate you from the equation so that you would stay out of this. But now it looks like I’m going to have to rethink my plan.” He paused. “I was going to pin it all on Sykes here and have him commit suicide to wrap it all up in a nice bundle. He was going to be just another poor soldier struggling with his own memories and stopping the pain the only way he knew how. But now I’m seeing it differently. You’re going to die confronting him, and he’s going to have to die by your hand.” Bash stepped closer. “Why don’t you be so kind as to toss your weapon over here, Lieutenant.”
Arthur reluctantly tossed his Glock, heard it clamber among the rocks at Bash’s feet. Carefully squatting, Bash picked it up, stood, and tucked his own 9 mm into the waistband of his pants as he trained the Glock on Arthur. “Now the other one,” Bash said, grinning. “When we were in-country, you always carried two pieces.” He waved the semiautomatic. “C’mon, don’t disappoint me now.”
Arthur pushed back the flank of his denim jacket, reached his right hand inside, and unsnapped the tactical holster. He carefully pulled out the second Glock and tossed it where he had thrown the other pistol.
Bash picked it up and turned his attention to Sykes. “Now you, John. What tricks have you got up your sleeve?”
Sykes opened his jacket again to reveal no weapon. Arthur noticed how his eyes never left Bash’s. There wasn’t a knife big enough, he thought, to cut the tension between them, no matter how many times they’d had each other’s back in the sandbox.
“How long have you been a part of the Patriots?” Arthur asked.
Bash’s boisterous laugh echoed from the cave througout the dark canyon. “I’m not a part of those fucking wannabes,” he said indignantly. “After I got out of the service, I tried to re-up more than once, but they wouldn’t fucking have me. Said my brain was all messed up. Well, they were the ones that messed it up! Because they turned me into a killer, and I fucking let them! They said I had traumatic brain injuries that prohibited them from re-enlistment.” Bash made sure he kept one Glock trained on Arthur, while the other remained centered on Sykes. “Why aren’t you the same as the rest of us? The war made you a killer too.” Bash shook his head, as if to rid himself of a flurry of demons. “Sometimes, Lieutenant, I feel like I’m living on the edge of nowhere. Did you know I’ve spent the last eight years of my life plotting my own death? Hell, I even tried to blow my brains out the other day, but the fucking hammer fell on a dud.” Bash returned his attention to Sykes.
“I can get you help, James,” Arthur promised.
“Fuck you and your help!”
Arthur noticed Basher becoming agitated and a bit shaky, spurred on by the anxiety racing through him now. Sykes looked at Arthur and then back at Basher.
“How’d you get involved with the Patriots?” Arthur asked. Keep calm, John. Just keep calm.
“Dayton hired me on his own figuring that if he could get the broad to sell her land to him, he could, in turn, lease it to NMX under a shadow company and work out a profitable deal for himself.”
“Then what made you kill him?” Arthur said.
Bash’s expression was curious, and the question seemed to make him focus. Arthur had Sykes’ attention as well.
“You heard already, huh?” Bash snickered. “That was an unfortunate consequence. I was aiming for the NMX exec at the table. He had been stumbling closer to what Dayton was doing, so he gave me another bonus to take him out. But when some asshole stood up and headed for the panel, Dayton just got in the way.” He shrugged. “Oops.”
Arthur made a mental note of the smirk on Bash’s face. He thought it needed to be smacked off, and hard. But he wasn’t close enough to do it. And if he tried to move closer, it might force Bash to kill them both and leave them out here in this box canyon for the bobcats and cougars to feed on, leaving the coyotes to clean up the scraps. The Colt Mustang nestling snug and hard against his lower back constantly reminded him it was there, ready and willing to bark whenever he made the judgment call. Arthur looked at Sykes and slightly shook his head in a motion not telegraphed to Bash.
“Guess I’m killing two birds with one stone, you might say.” Bash’s eyes shifted between both men. “I already have them looking for our friend here, so why not add another kill to his roster. I have the rifle I used to kill the boys in my truck. It’s wiped clean, and I was going to leave it among John’s stash so the cops would find it and tie it to him. Dayton had already paid me up front for the two boys, but after I didn’t take you out—well, he didn’t care too much for that. But what was he going to do?”
“Why me, man?” Sykes said. “I saved your ass plenty of times outside the fence.”
“What can I say, buddy, purely collateral damage. The side effect of war. Nothing personal.” He looked at Arthur. “I’m guessing yo
u found the gum wrapper, sir?”
Arthur nodded.
“Gum wrapper?” Sykes repeated.
“You know you really should recycle more, John. You shouldn’t be tossing things like gum wrappers on the ground.” Bash smiled knowingly. “The last time you took me out to that desolate pile of shit where you shoot, I picked it up and pretended to throw it out. You wouldn’t want some poor creature to come along and get that paper stuck in its throat because it smelled like spearmint.”
Out of the corner of his eye, just inside the farthest edge of his visual acuity, Arthur noticed Sykes’ right hand slowly moving behind his back. Arthur decided to focus Bash’s attention back on him. If Sykes had a play, he would have to go with it. “So no one besides that exec at NMX knew what Dayton was up to?” Arthur hoped he was buying some time. And the question seemed to give Sykes enough time to get his hand on whatever it was he had stashed behind his back.
“Nope. Dayton may have been a tool, but he was no idiot. He played his moves pretty close to the vest. It was only after the exec began sniffing around that Dayton seemed to get nervous.” Bash’s fingers settled firmly around the grip of Arthur’s Glocks, his index fingers resting comfortably on each of the triggers. “It’s kind of apropos, don’t you think?”
Death Waits in the Dark Page 17