Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  She turned and hip-swayed back to the bar.

  I took a deep breath to decompress, and stood to shake some of the wetness from my clothes. A minute later, the waitress brought our drinks and a plastic bowl of pretzels. C.J. took a solid first gulp. “Want to tell me what the hell that was all about back there?”

  I took a sip of my whiskey. “That explosion was meant to kill both of us.”

  “Say what?”

  I told him about my phone call, about the package with Carmen’s ring, hair, and police badge, and about how I ran into the church to get out of the rain. “If it hadn’t been raining, if you hadn’t been delayed, we’d have both been at the gazebo when that bomb detonated.”

  C.J. leaned back against the booth and let out a deep breath. “Jeez.”

  “That all you have to say?”

  He swirled his beer glass and drank it down. “So what do we do now?”

  I thought of Ricardo Ramos lying dead in his Ybarra Place home, then the attempt on my own life, and now this. “I don’t want to go to the police, not yet. But if I don’t, and they get wind that I’m connected to this too . . .”

  “You got a lawyer? You’re gonna need one.”

  “There’s a lawyer who handled my late aunt’s estate. But the thought of entrusting my fate to him . . . the guy’s an ass. I just don’t know. And there’s Carmen to worry about, too. I want to know what’s happened to her before I approach any cops.”

  “In shit up to your eyeballs, man.”

  I couldn’t argue. We finished our drinks and I left a twenty on the table. C.J. drove me back to my car. I’d parked outside the taped-off crime scene. My head had cleared enough to drive, but C.J. followed me back to my house, just to be sure.

  As I drove down my street, I looked into Carmen’s yard and almost careened into her front wall. She had her car trunk raised and held a package in her arm. I rolled the window down and called out. She waved her free hand and disappeared through her front door.

  I’d stopped so quickly, C.J. had narrowly missed my rear bumper with the front of his hearse. We climbed out and hurried to her door. Carmen met us on her way to get something else from the car.

  “Hi Gabe, ready for tomorrow?” She lifted a bag out of her trunk and closed the lid. “I got us some food.” She turned toward C.J. and her tone cooled. “Mister Jester.”

  C.J. glared at her.

  “Where have you been?” I nearly shouted. “Some guy called me and said he’d taken you hostage. He also left a package at my door that contained your badge, a lock of your hair, a ring—”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?” She looked out to the street and then back at me. “I had the day off. Lunch with my sister. Then I went shopping.”

  “I tried to call your cell but you didn’t answer.”

  “I turned it off at lunch and must have forgotten to turn it back on. Sorry. What’s going on?”

  “May we come in?” I pointed to her house. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Follow me.” Carmen led us into her living room. “Have a seat.”

  She put the bag on a small table, hung her raincoat in a closet by the front door, and sunk into an over-stuffed leather chair. I eased into a sand-colored recliner by the fireplace. C.J. stood by the door.

  My first time inside her house. There was very little of Carmen in this room. No sign of a husband. No pictures or personal touches. No plants. No books or magazines. Just furniture that seemed to have been chosen at random. And a set of conga drums next to the fireplace.

  I gave her all the details about our calls and about the package, and then told her of the explosion. “Someone just tried to kill us.”

  Carmen remained silent for a long moment and then scolded us. “Have you two been drinking?”

  I didn’t want to lie to her, so I ignored the question. “The package is at my house. I phoned Lieutenant Archuleta to see if you were on duty. I didn’t tell him about the call or the package.”

  “I wish you hadn’t called him.” She drummed her fingers on her knees. “Wait here while I check something.” She stood and walked through the dining room, out of sight into the room beyond. Then she walked from that room toward the back of her house. “Damn!”

  I’d never heard her raise her voice before.

  C.J. and I followed her voice to the open back door in her kitchen. Someone had splintered the frame around its lock. “I’ve had a break in. My badge is gone from the vanity in my bedroom. My ring, too.”

  “But that hair—” I said.

  “A lock of my mother’s hair. I had it attached to a picture of her I keep taped to the side of my mirror.”

  We followed her into her bedroom, where she pulled her mother’s picture from the edge of the mirror and laid it carefully on top of her dressing table. “See?” A small strand of hair remained attached to one side of the picture. Carmen looked uncomfortable with our presence in her bedroom. She changed the subject.

  “Today was a second attempt to kill you, Gabe. Damien shot at you. Now he—or someone else—tried to blow you up, along with C.J.”

  “Damien?” C.J. said.

  Carmen stared at him. “You know Jason Damien?”

  “No. Name just sounds familiar, that’s all.”

  “You both need to give me statements. Right now. I’ll write up an incident report and take it down to my station after that. Do either of you need any medical attention?”

  C.J. and I both shook our heads. For twenty minutes, Carmen questioned us separately on every detail of our afternoon. I left out nothing except our drinks at Painkillers. I hoped C.J. knew enough not to mention this too. We reassembled in her living room.

  “Now I have a question,” I said. “Any ideas about our two break-ins?”

  “Hardly anyone knew I’d be out today,” she said. Then she laughed. “Only my sister and everybody down at the station. I doubt she’d break in here or attempt to murder either of you.”

  We talked a bit more, trying to piece together what all these events might mean. Why would anyone want to kill C.J. as well as me? We couldn’t come up with any answers.

  Carmen told us to keep ourselves available for further questioning about the explosion. She then told us to go on home. C.J. wasted no time. He excused himself and drove away in his hearse.

  “What about your back door?” I said. “Want me to fix that for you?”

  “Thanks, but my sister’s husband is a contractor. I’ll have him come over after work and repair things. I appreciate your offer, Gabe.”

  “You think we should make our trip as planned tomorrow?” I said.

  “Why not? I took a couple of vacation days, so I’m off until Monday. Besides, we’ll be safer in one another’s company.”

  I looked out the window. The rain had started again. Heavy drops bounced off the roof of my Land Cruiser.

  “Want me to go get that package?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. The box is evidence. I always carry my badge with me, even on my days off. Today I forgot it on my dresser. Wouldn’t you know?”

  I ran over to my house and picked up the box from the floor. I covered it in a towel in case there were any prints other than mine that might wash off in the rain.

  Carmen was standing at her door when I returned. “Want your towel back?” she said, as I handed over the box.

  “Keep it and bring it with us tomorrow. I’d like to get an early start, say about eight?”

  “I’ll be ready.” She took my hand in hers. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks. See you in the morning.” As I walked across to my yard, I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned her ring.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  April 13

  I took hours to fall asleep, and once I did, a violent dream shook me awake.

  Holly sat on a lawn chair as she listened to a summer jazz concert in the park. A man with a gun chased me as I ran toward her. He shot again and again, but his bullets missed me.
I could hardly move my feet. I yelled a warning to Holly: Run! Run! I almost reached her. She gazed at me. A bomb exploded beneath her chair…Holly shattered like a broken mirror.

  I woke up in a cold sweat. So much adrenalin surged through my bloodstream that my morning coffee would be overkill.

  It didn’t take long to pack the Land Cruiser; I’d set out maps, extra clothing, our tent, sleeping gear, and emergency supplies the night before. I filled a large bowl with dry cat food and poured out enough water to last Otis for at least five days. Then I grabbed my .38 from the library desk drawer and stored it in the glove compartment.

  Carmen stepped outside as I pulled into her driveway. She opened the rear door and tossed her backpack into the Cruiser. The bulge from her shoulder harness and gun stood out under her navy blue windbreaker.

  We climbed aboard and I drove off via I-40 for my Catron County property. I figured our drive would take about four hours, not counting the stop we’d make at the Cibola County Medical Examiner’s Office in Grants.

  Our route passed through Laguna Pueblo. Its largest village, a mass of sand-colored single story buildings on our right, sat nestled beneath a tall, bleached-white church that was built on higher ground. I wondered if Nai’ya Alonso-Riley might be there today. In the distance, Mount Taylor—a Navajo sacred peak, towered over the land. Its size and shape seemed to shift each time I looked its way.

  I turned off the Interstate at the Grants exit, drove past a Wal-Mart Super Store and a sign that pointed to the New Mexico Women’s Correctional Facility. Right behind it loomed a snow-topped Mount Taylor.

  The medical examiner’s office was one of a cluster of gray cinder block buildings that also contained the Cibola County jail, the county clerk, and sheriff’s offices. Inside, Carmen spoke to a uniformed woman at the front desk while I sat down on a hard plastic chair and browsed through a year-old issue of Field and Stream. Before I had time to learn how to catch trophy bass, the medical investigator came out.

  “Officer Flores? Mr. McKenna?” His lab coat was so starched I wondered how he could extend his hand in greeting. “I’m Dr. Alvarez.”

  We shook hands and he led us to their morgue, a chilling mix of aluminum, glossy white tiles, and strong chemical smells.

  I identified Millie Singleton as the woman I’d met at 1142 Ybarra Place in Albuquerque at the approximate time of the Ramos killing. She looked much worse today. The bullet had blown out a chunk of her forehead along with her eye.

  After the morgue, we stopped at a 7/11. I bought some Pepto-Bismol, as Carmen refilled our coffee mugs.

  I nearly bumped into a white Ford Bronco getting out of the parking lot but, thankfully, we both stopped in time. A hand emerged from the driver’s side window. I expected to get the finger, but he waved me ahead of him instead.

  Carmen studied me carefully once I pulled back on the road. Her brow furrowed. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” I met her gaze for just an instant. “Do you ever get used to it? Being around dead bodies so much?”

  She ran a finger along her bottom lip. “In a way, I guess. The way a doctor does. Cops spend so much time around crime and violence. You either become hardened or detached. Otherwise, you can’t do your job. I remember my first homicide investigation; a sixteen-year-old prostitute strangled near the state fairgrounds. I can still see her face.”

  I didn’t feel much like talking after that. Dead bodies have bothered me ever since I saw my father laid out in a morgue the night he died. His fatal heart attack was not unexpected, but his hollow eyes and blue skin were sights still etched in my memory. Four years later, I found my mother’s body on the floor of her apartment, one day before I was to put her in a nursing home…her warmth turned so cold.

  I shook off these memories, glanced in the rearview mirror and concentrated on the road. We backtracked eastbound on the Interstate until the turn-off for Route 117, south to Catron County.

  Carmen pulled a granola bar from her jacket pocket, unwrapping it and offering it to me. I shook my head, so she went ahead and munched on it. When she was done, she stuffed the wrapper into the pocket of her windbreaker. “Gabe, how did your wife die?” she abruptly asked.

  I hesitated. I’d been over this so often with friends and family in the days and weeks after Holly’s passing. It always exhausted me. “Holly died of ovarian cancer…she was forty-six.”

  “I’m so sorry. Any kids?”

  “No. Holly…” I stopped. “You have any more granola bars? Guess I am hungry after all.”

  Carmen looked out her side window. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. My memories are still raw. They tell you it takes time.”

  “Gabe,” she reached over and touched my arm, “I’d like to know and understand you better. There’ll be plenty of time.”

  I turned away and concentrated on the road ahead. Clouds were once again winning their battle with the sun. My gas tank read three-quarters full and the temperature gauge was within normal range. A large splatter of bird shit hit the upper middle of the windshield. Neither wiper could reach it. Damn.

  “Do you ever wonder about me, Gabe?” Carmen strained at her seatbelt as she turned in my direction. “Any questions you’d like to ask me?”

  I had a million. “I do have one.”

  Carmen’s eyes brightened. “What is it?”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  She sunk into her seat and turned straight ahead. “He’s in California now.” Not a hint of emotion in her voice.

  “Travels a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “Dick does surveillance and reconnaissance design. He worked at Sandia Labs for more than a decade. Now he does consulting work, mostly for aeronautic and aerospace companies. Boeing, Jet Propulsion Labs…he’s on the road a lot.”

  “Maybe when he gets back, we could all get together?”

  Carmen reached into her pocket. “Here.” She handed me a granola bar.

  We kept going in silence, passing La Ventana natural arch—a hundred-foot reddish sandstone bridge. Ten minutes later we entered a stretch called ‘The Narrows.’ The road lost its shoulders and squeezed between towering cliffs on our left and the forbidding El Mapais lava beds on our right. Albuquerque was a world away. I forced my eyes to the road again, but soon my mind drifted back to Red Gold.

  “Now what are you thinking about?” Carmen asked.

  “The maps. All that handwriting on them. The listed years from the late nineteenth century right up to 1921. Why do they stop? And those lines and other markings on the maps. Routes of travel? Prospected areas?”

  “You think James McKenna found something? Gold or silver, maybe? There were thousands of prospectors and miners back then.”

  I paused, unsure of how much I wanted to tell her. “Maybe. Maybe he grew too old and gave up.”

  “Let my secret become your secret,” Carmen spoke softly, more to herself than to me.

  “What?”

  “His advice to Nellie in one of those letters.” Quite a memory on this gal.

  I glanced again into my rearview mirror. A white Ford Bronco held its position a hundred yards behind us, just as it had for the past fifteen minutes

  “What is it, Gabe?”

  “Company. Look carefully when I slow down. Get his license plate if you can as he passes us.” We left ‘The Narrows’ and the shoulders of the road reappeared. I decelerated and pulled off to the side. Carmen’s hand moved to the gun in her shoulder harness, as the Bronco drove by. I couldn’t get a look at the driver’s face.

  “New Mexico. MKL-943. Familiar?”

  “Write that down. There’s a pencil and small-ring notebook in the console,” I said. “You can run that plate later.”

  “You’re acting paranoid,” Carmen said. But she wrote it down.

  “I’m acting paranoid? Who’s the one who reached for her gun?”

  “If it will make you feel better, I’ll call this number in when we stop.
”

  “Good. How long will it take?”

  “Depends. No more than twenty-four hours, I’d guess.”

  I’d noticed a pulsating, rhythmic flicker on the Land Cruiser’s GPS screen ever since we left the morgue in Grants. I turned off Bluesville on the satellite radio and then the engine. “Stay here. I need to check something.”

  “Gabe?”

  I climbed out of the car and lifted the Land Cruiser’s rear door. I reached into my survival box and took out a small, black rectangle the size of a pack of cigarettes.

  Carmen had turned around in her seat. She watched me closely. “What’s that?”

  “A digital RF detector. I bought it after I had that break-in. I wanted to make sure that whoever took those maps hadn’t left any bugs behind. The house was clean.”

  “Why did you bring it with us?”

  “Like you said, I’m paranoid. I tossed it into my survival box just before we left. Glad I did.”

  I flipped a small switch on its side, and the two-inch screen confirmed my suspicion. I shut off the radio frequency scanner and put it away.

  Carmen rolled her window down. “What’s going on back there?”

  “Tell you in a minute. Hang on.”

  I shut the rear door and felt around under the left rear wheel well. Nothing. Under the opposite wheel well my hand brushed against a small metal object attached to the Land Cruiser’s underside. I pulled it out and examined it. I walked back and slipped into the driver’s seat with an inch-square device in my hand.

  “What was that all about?”

  I showed her the tracking device. “Somebody’s been on our trail.”

  “We should go back to Albuquerque.”

  I thought of her husband’s work in surveillance and suddenly wondered which of us was being followed?

  “We’re not going back.” I reached across her and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a small screwdriver from the toolkit I’d purchased the day before. I reached behind Carmen’s seat and grabbed a baggie out of one of the supply boxes. Unscrewing the cover and back plate of the device, I dropped them into the baggie. “Might be prints on this.” I slipped the baggie into a storage slot in my driver’s door panel.