Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  By the time I walked back to the tent, Carmen had undone her hair. As she combed it out, she bent over in the lantern light and caught me staring.

  “Two sleeping bags tonight…or just one?” I asked. I tried to make it a wisecrack, but couldn’t disguise the desire in my voice.

  “We’ll stay warmer if we share,” she said. “Wait out here for a minute.” She picked up the lantern and took it into the tent.

  I watched her shadow against the tent wall and imagined my arms around her.

  That’s why I didn’t hear anyone crawl out of the darkness. The blow struck flush on the back of my head. As I fell, a hundred stars exploded above me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I opened my eyes and tried to prop up on my left elbow, but intense jackhammering pain in the back of my head made even that a struggle. I had damaged my ribs again when I hit the ground and now each breath came with a shot of pain. I struggled to stand but nausea overcame me. I knelt back down and vomited.

  After my nausea passed, I clawed my way up again and leaned against the side panel of the Land Cruiser. My vision was blurred, my body swayed, my legs would not obey my brain. Warm liquid trickled down the back of my neck and into my shirt. I reached back and touched where I’d been struck. My fingers felt a wet, golf-ball-sized lump. Knife-like pain pierced my head.

  My mind cleared in stages. It was night…I was somewhere out in the country…Catron County…My God, the cabin was on fire!

  “Carmen! Chato!” I called out and staggered toward the fire. The cabin’s roof collapsed with a groan, its glass windows shattered at once and released bright streamers of flame. Sparks shot up and ignited the branches of the aspen. Cries of terror from the penned animals filled the air. Anyone inside that cabin couldn’t possibly be alive.

  It was out of control.

  I fumbled around in my pocket for the remote key to the Cruiser, pressed a button, and turned on its headlights. They cut a swath into the darkness beyond the mesa.

  Twenty yards ahead of me, at the edge of the precipice, Jason Damien, minus his Stetson, gripped Carmen’s left arm and pointed a gun at her head. She stared at me like a frightened deer. The beams of my headlights caught the steel of Damien’s gun barrel just for a moment, enough time to remind me of what I’d seen in the split second before my car crashed into that North Valley wall.

  “Stay back, McKenna!” He pulled Carmen in front of him as a shield. “Hands in the air!”

  “Okay. I’m staying right here.”

  Damn. I’d put my gun back in the Land Cruiser’s glove compartment before our dinner. But no more than three feet separated my right arm from the driver’s side door. With the light from my vehicle in his eyes, I figured Damien couldn’t see me clearly. I cradled the remote in my hand and punched in the unlock code with my thumb. The door clicked open. I crouched, and swung the door in front of me. Then I heaved my body into the front seat. I nearly passed out from the pain in my side. I fumbled my Colt from the glove compartment, as two bullets slammed into the still-open door.

  “Gabe! Save yourself!” Carmen’s voice seemed so far away.

  Damien fired again. One shot took out my left headlight; a second hit the front grill. Then silence. I inched my head above the dashboard until a final blast from his gun shattered my right headlight. Carmen and Damien were now barely visible in the diminished glow of the cabin fire.

  The Land Cruiser’s interior overhead light remained on. I’d make an easy target if I lifted my head any further or reached up to turn it off. I lay on the seat and waited for more shots. I listened hard, but caught only the faint sound of Carmen’s protests as Damien growled commands at her. Then their voices ebbed, leaving me with just the crackle of the cabin fire.

  I took my flashlight out of the glove compartment and wriggled outside. My feet searched the darkness until they found the ground. I dared to peer from behind the open door, held the flashlight out far to my side, and clicked it on.

  Carmen and Damien were gone.

  The last sounds I’d heard must have been Damien as he dragged Carmen down the slope. He’d fired off five rounds by my count. If he had Carmen’s gun as well as his own, he still had plenty of firepower.

  I clicked off the flashlight and crawled to the edge of the mesa. There, I again held the light away from my body, clicked it on and aimed it into the arroyo. There! I caught a glimpse of Damien halfway down the incline. He pushed Carmen ahead, turned and fired. His bullet whistled past my right ear. I painfully rolled to my left.

  I fished in my pants pocket for my cellphone and dialed 911. No bars, no service, nothing. The power level read full. I was in a dead zone.

  I couldn’t risk another glance over the edge. It would be total darkness down there. Damien had enough time to drag Carmen around the arroyo’s first bend. They’d be out of sight by now. I crawled back to the Cruiser and braced myself against its side. I no longer felt blood run down the back of my neck.

  There was a bottle of Black Bush that I’d hidden in the rear cargo area. I dug it out and poured some of it over the back of my head. My wound burned like hell. Once the pain subsided, I hurled the bottle toward the arroyo with all my strength. It died in the sand halfway there.

  I lurched back to the tent to find Carmen’s gun. I lit the lantern and scoured the interior; there was no sign of a struggle and no sign of her gun. How had Damien managed to get the drop on her? My legs wobbled and my body shivered. I ran back outside toward the edge of the arroyo, but collapsed before I got there.

  One more futile attempt to get back on my feet got me nowhere. All I could do was roll onto my back and close my eyes. Wind brushed across my face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I opened my eyes and checked my cellphone clock: 4:42 AM. The inferno had died down and no longer warmed the air. I propped up on one elbow again. No cabin now, just a glowing pile of orange and yellow that shifted and sagged in on itself. Three charred cabin corner posts still stood. Golgotha, come to New Mexico.

  A sound swelled in the darkness as I sat and stared into the embers. It grew louder and louder. Red lights flashed in the sky and increased in size. A brilliant searchlight clicked on and scanned across the mesa. I was no longer alone. I forced my arms above my head, waved at the light, and called out with as loud a voice as I could summon.

  The level mesa top stretched for almost half a mile. A helicopter set down a hundred yards away and three men emerged. Two ran toward the cabin as a third approached me.

  I called out as he drew near, “Who are you?”

  He shone his flashlight on his own face, as if in reassurance. He wore a Cibola National Forest Service badge and a patch from the Davenport Lookout Station.

  “Forest Service. You hurt bad?” He looked at the cabin and then back at me.

  “I’ll live.”

  “How did this fire start?”

  “It was set deliberately. That’s all I know.” I struggled to get to my feet. Dizziness forced me back to the ground.

  “Don’t try to move.” The ranger looked me over and checked the wound on the back of my head. “I’ll get the state police out here, and an EMT unit for you. Stay down. There’s a blanket in our chopper. I’ll be right back.”

  I looked over at the cabin. With the flames replaced by scattered embers, the other two forest rangers got close to the charred ruins.

  One of them lugged a chainsaw. He moved to the base of the still-smoldering aspen, looked at the tree’s top branches, and checked the wind direction. He felled the tree away from the cabin and areas of heaviest vegetation. As it thudded to the ground, sparks flew in all directions. Most fell on bare earth and died; his companion stomped out the rest.

  The first ranger returned with the blanket and bundled me in it.

  “I’ve radioed for help,” he said. “It won’t be long. In the meantime, tell me everything you can about this.”

  I filled him in on what details I knew, but then the other rangers called him to the
far side of the cabin. They struggled to clear a fire line and prevent any final sparks from spreading the blaze, a more immediate concern than hearing what I had to say.

  I wrapped the blanket tighter and closed my eyes. The frightened sounds of the animals, the shouts of the rangers, and the clang of shovels filled my head.

  Another chopper approached from the east and landed near the area where the first had set down. The police had arrived.

  A squat, barrel-chested cop stomped over to me and identified himself as Lieutenant Robert Garza. He had the thickest neck I’d ever seen. His cheeks were so puffed out they pushed the bottoms of his eyes up far enough to give him an unwavering squint. The rest of his face knotted into a scowl that appeared to be nailed to his face.

  He rubbed his hands together and turned up his jacket collar before the questions began. “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriel McKenna. I own this property…what’s left of it.”

  “What happened?” Garza rubbed his eyes and looked around.

  I drew as deep a breath as the pain in my ribs allowed, then told him how Jason Damien had taken Carmen. I gave him a quick summary of the Ramos killings, first Ricardo and now his father, Chato. I told him how a white Ford Bronco had followed Carmen and me on our way to the cabin.

  “I need to speak with Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta of the Albuquerque Police Department,” I said. “Carmen Flores is one of his officers. Damien is taking her farther away every minute. Can’t you do something?”

  Garza looked at my shot-up Land Cruiser and then back at me. “Leave this to the professionals. You wait here.”

  He hacked some phlegm onto the ground and then walked over and spoke to one of the other officers from his police chopper. The man hurried back to it and, within a minute, had its engine started. He lifted off, did a mid-air turn and switched on a searchlight. He scanned the arroyo and then took off in a westerly direction over the route Carmen and I had taken to the cabin.

  A call came in to Garza’s police radio a short while later. He listened, frowned, scratched his neck, and then shook his head. “No. Come on back. We’ll have to rely on the roadblocks.”

  Dawn made it easier for the police. They took prints off the Land Cruiser, bagged some spent shells, and collected other items I couldn’t see. They prowled the dry wash and the arroyo below the mesa. A second police unit flew in and dropped from my sight as it landed about three hundred yards away in the arroyo itself. They came up the rest of the way on foot, with two dogs leading the way.

  Forest service rangers and cops stood in groups around the charred cabin. As the still-smoking ruins cooled, the dogs probed deeper into the rubble. Within seconds, one of the dogs barked.

  “Body!” his handler shouted.

  I turned away. Minutes later, two men stumbled past me with a body bag. Thin whiffs of smoke emerged from it into the dim light. Then they brought out Chato’s dog. The poor animal’s rear legs protruded from the tarp they used to carry him.

  By now another helicopter landed and two paramedics—one male, one female—ran to me with their arms full. Garza called something to them as they passed him on their way toward me. I couldn’t make out what he said over the sound of the chopper.

  The male paramedic reached me first and knelt beside me. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  I correctly gave my name, the date, and identified our present location. I touched the end of my nose with the tip my finger. I was indestructible. I just couldn’t stand up.

  While he played Twenty Questions, a female paramedic slipped off my blanket, pulled open my coat, and cut open my shirt. She said she had to check for the “mechanism of my injury.” The wound on the back of my head had stopped bleeding.

  “Level one trauma, Jeff,” she said.

  A third person, maybe the pilot, joined our little group carrying a six-foot wooden board. He and the female paramedic rolled me onto my side while the other EMT checked the back of my skull. Then, they rolled me back and onto the board, strapping my chest, pelvis and legs. They put a collar around my neck to immobilize my head.

  “This isn’t necessary,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  “We need to play it safe,” the female EMT said. Before I could respond, she hooked me to an I.V.

  Jeff turned to the third guy. “Call in to UNM hospital. They should be ready to receive in forty-five minutes.”

  Lieutenant Garza, twenty yards away, motioned my EMT attendants to join him. Apparently, he again didn’t want me to hear. Then he came and bent down next to me.

  “I’ve ordered all roads blocked within a forty mile radius,” Garza said. “If your estimate of the time of Damien’s departure is correct, they won’t be any farther away than that, not over this terrain.” He stood, pushed his hat back on his head, checked his watch, and lit a cigarette.

  Another cop came by. Taller and much thinner than Garza, he looked young enough to still be in high school. A large scar ran across his forehead an inch above his eyebrows. It made him look terminally worried. His pistol rested in its holster, but he dangled another gun in his right hand, its barrel held by a thin pencil.

  “Found this in the tent, Lieutenant.”

  I raised my head as much as the collar permitted and watched Garza examine the weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson.

  Then the young cop knelt down to give me a better look, as Garza asked, “Recognize this?”

  “That’s Carmen’s—Officer Flores’s—gun. Damien must have surprised her in the tent while she prepared to bed down. I can’t swear that it’s hers, but it is the same make.”

  Jeff the paramedic intervened. “Officer, can’t this wait? This man has head trauma.”

  “A cop’s life is in danger.” Garza looked hard at the EMTs and then down at me once more. “I don’t suppose you caught the license number on Damien’s Bronco, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, we did. He followed us through The Narrows. Then I pulled to the shoulder suddenly and Carmen wrote it down as he passed us. New Mexico plates, the turquoise ones. MKL-943.”

  Garza grunted something under his breath and then turned to his subordinate. “Run those plates.” He pointed at me: “You stay here.”

  I was strapped to a board. Where the hell was I going to go? I shivered even though covered with the blanket.

  He walked back to the nearest helicopter and stood beside it. From my low position on the ground, I could only see the top half of the pilot’s body. He handed Garza the chopper’s radio microphone. The lieutenant spoke into it, and fidgeted with the collar of his coat.

  After a few minutes, Garza returned and knelt beside me. “You’re going back to Albuquerque for further medical examination and treatment. I’ve talked with Archuleta and he’s filled me in on some of the details of your situation. He’ll talk to you at the hospital after you’ve been checked out by the docs.”

  “Just find Damien before he kills Carmen, okay?” The sheep, disturbed by the arrival of the helicopters, men and dogs, continued to raise holy hell in their pen. “Do something about Chato’s animals too.”

  We set down on the rooftop helipad of the University of New Mexico hospital. E.R. personnel transferred me from the backboard to a gurney. They whisked me inside to the emergency room, unstrapped me, and asked me to sign some papers. A medic asked if I needed anything for my pain. I told him what I wanted, but the bar was closed. I settled for a couple Tylenols.

  For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I was poked, prodded, monitored for heartbeat, respiration, temperature, and oxygen level, and generally intruded upon. Both of my CT scans were normal, or close enough. By evening, I was on my feet and looking for the closest exit. The medical staff insisted that I remain at least one more day.

  Sleep didn’t come easily that next night, but not because of the pain. I had too much on my mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  April 15

  The wall clock in the hospital con
ference room said it was high noon. Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta and I, armed with cardboard cups of coffee, sat on opposite sides of a rectangular wooden table.

  This cop wasn’t what I expected. A few inches short of six feet, and perhaps fifty years old, his was a wiry build that barely filled his tailored brown suit. The baldpate of his oversized head shone above a fringe of short gray hair and reflected the fluorescent ceiling light. Tortoise shell half-glasses rested on the end of his prominent nose and curled behind protuberant ears. He sized me up with the most intelligent eyes I’d ever seen.

  He stirred his coffee with his left hand. A scar ran from the crook of the thumb and forefinger up to his wrist, where it disappeared under a white shirt cuff.

  One cautious sip of his coffee and the questions began. “Tired of New Mexico yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Professor, why are people trying to kill you?”

  I turned up my palms and shrugged.

  “Could it be the gold?” He leaned forward.

  Damn. What had Carmen told him?

  He pulled out a pack of Camels and tapped the end of one softly on the top of the table. “Mind if I smoke?” He struck a match before I could answer, lit up, and shook out the flame. He tossed the spent match into a wastebasket against the wall, just under a “No Smoking” sign. A lungful of exhaled smoke filled the air before he sat back in his chair. “You have any idea where this gold is?”

  “No. And I don’t see any reason why it’s your business, with all due respect.”

  Archuleta blew another plume in my general direction. “I’m looking for possible motives.” He leaned forward. “This isn’t just about you, Professor.”

  “You’re right. Sorry.”

  “Three people have been killed. From where I sit, you’re the point of convergence.”