Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  J.A.McK.

  A sudden blow crashed against the back of my head and dropped me to the ground. “Crawl over and get those bags. I don’t want them cluttering up your grave.”

  My head hadn’t cleared from his blow. I had to claw my way to my knees.

  “Move!”

  My left arm hurt too much to put weight on it. Blood trickled down my sleeve and seeped through the cuff of my shirt. My stitches had torn.

  I dragged myself across the cave floor to the saddlebags. Hunched over in pain, I pulled one of the leather cinch straps. It snapped, dried and weakened by the years. My right hand held a three-foot length of leather with a large, silver buckle on its end. It was all I had.

  “Oh my God, no!” I shouted.

  “What?” O’Connor stepped closer.

  I clutched the strap as hard as I could and spun around. The leather whipped toward his face. The buckle caught him flush in his right eye.

  “Damn you!” He tilted forward and clutched at the eye with furious fingers. I scooped up a handful of sand and threw it in his face. I rushed him, grabbed for his gun with my right hand, and planted my knee in his groin.

  O’Connor’s grip on the gun held firm. He screamed in rage as we struggled, and shot three times in panicked succession. Each bullet buried itself somewhere in the sandy floor.

  I kicked his shin with the toe of my boot. As he recoiled, I slipped from his grasp and slapped hard at his gun. It spiraled from his hand and out the cave entrance.

  We stood three feet apart gasping the foul air. The whites of his eyes shone gold, each iris black and deep and empty. A stare from beyond the grave.

  The corners of his mouth turned upward. Sound hissed from his lips. A wild-eyed smile crept over his face the way syrup oozes across a pancake. He let out a brief, quiet snicker. Then it grew and deepened into a roar of manic laughter. His mouth frothed. Fixing his gaze on me, O’Connor reached back to gather force to deliver one final blow.

  I ducked to avoid his telegraphed punch, and came up swinging with my good right arm. My fist dug deep into his stomach. Where the body goes, the head will follow. He bent over. I doubled a right uppercut to his face.

  O’Connor crashed to his knees. I hit him twice more on the back of his neck with everything I had. He collapsed onto his side and lay motionless at my feet.

  I took a step back, steadied myself, and kicked him square in the face. His nose made a gushing sound and coated my boot with blood. His eyelids fluttered and closed. “That’s for C.J.” By now, my whole body was on fire. I kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could. “And that’s for Rebecca.”

  A wipe of my right sleeve across my nose cleared some of the blood from my face. The back of my head throbbed, but I ignored it and turned toward the gold. I cast a towering shadow against the far wall above the saddlebags.

  There it was, after all the treachery and death of one hundred and fifty years: the Lost Adams gold. All mine. I felt a smile creep over my face.

  “Stop.”

  I turned.

  Carmen had her Smith and Wesson aimed at my head. Both hands held steady. “I heard three shots. A cop is trained to respond. I was hoping to find you dead.” She glanced down at O’Connor.

  “He’s alive,” I said. “But he’ll never look the same.” I raised my hands and studied her face.

  Carmen’s right eye twitched. She took a deep breath and exhaled with great calm. She looked at me and then looked over at the saddlebags. Casting one more glance at O’Connor, her arms swung down and she pumped a bullet into his chest and then a second one into his skull. He shook one time and lay still.

  “What…?” My mouth opened and I stared at her from the far side of his dead body.

  “More for me,” she said without emotion. “Richard would understand. I’ll take care of his blonde bitch after I deal with you.”

  I searched her face, her eyes…there was nothing human to see.

  She took a step back and pointed the gun at me. She winked. “End of the line, Gabe.”

  I closed my eyes. A gunshot exploded and echoed off the walls of the cave.

  My knees buckled, but I felt nothing. I inhaled and held my breath as I opened my eyes. Carmen teetered in front of me, still clasping her gun. Where her eyes had been, an exit wound spewed out blood and brain tissue. Dead center. She fell. Her body hit the floor of the cave with a dull thud.

  Peering around the corner of the cave entrance with O’Connor’s gun extended in her right hand, Rebecca Turner stared blankly at me. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink.

  I edged out of the cave to her side, out of her line of fire.

  “It’s all right now,” I heard myself whisper.

  I lowered her arm and pried the gun from her grasp. Spider Martin’s knife dropped from her left hand.

  What happened after that is a blur, even now. I must have left the cave and called Archuleta on my cellphone. The sun was setting when he and Cibola County law enforcement arrived at the crater.

  I was sleepwalking in a bad dream. C.J. was gone. Carmen and O’Connor lay dead inside the cave. Rebecca was back in police custody.

  Archuleta assisted me down to the parking lot. I vomited twice along the way. My nose throbbed with a dull pain. The cut on the side of my head had clotted, as had the blood from the stitches in my arm. When we reached my car, I didn’t have the strength to stand anymore.

  EMTs arrived at the lot and wrapped me in a blanket. Still, I shivered, as the cops battered me with questions.

  I made no protest when Archuleta told me I couldn’t take the gold. That would have to await the results of their investigation and a legal judgment on my claim of ownership. He told me maybe the embossed saddlebags would help.

  I ended up back in the emergency room at UNM Hospital for the fourth time since leaving New York. Archuleta looked in on me about 8 p.m., but said “our talk” would keep until the following day. They gave me a sedative. What I needed was a good, stiff drink.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  April 22

  Just before nine the next morning, I leaned over the sink with a hospital-provided toothbrush in my hand. An insistent knock rattled the hinges of my private room door and sent a wave of pain through my head. “Come on in, I’m decent.” I wiped the toothpaste off my lips with a small towel and looked into the mirror as the door opened.

  Archuleta was in my room before I could turn around. He looked at me, shook his head, and walked over to the window. His right hand twizzled the rod beside the Venetian blinds until they were fully open. He stood there a moment and looked outside.

  He spoke without facing me. “So what do you have to say this morning?”

  “You need a neck trim, Sam.”

  He let that pass and turned to face me. He shoved a cigarette in his mouth, but caught himself before he lit up. It disappeared into the palm of his hand.

  “I don’t know what the fuck to make of you, Gabe. I told you to lay low.”

  “I have a problem with authority. How’s Rebecca? Where is she?”

  “We’re holding her, no charges filed yet. The D.A will piece it all together. But she’s okay physically, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “She saved my life.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” He walked over to me, tossed his unsmoked Camel into the toilet, and let it float. “They’re discharging you?”

  “That’s what I hear. Probably tired of me by now.” I buttoned my bloodstained work shirt and tucked it into my jeans.

  “Buy me a cup of coffee.” Sam held the door open and stood there.

  “Sure.” I checked the mirror again. Yeah, I looked as bad as my body felt.

  We walked to the elevators across from the nurses’ station. My head throbbed, but at least I was steady on my feet. The door closed. We were alone.

  Sam pressed the first floor button. “What in God’s name possessed you to go off on your own like that?” He took out another cigarette and let this o
ne rest unlit between his lips. I told him about the note I’d found behind Aunt Nellie’s old framed photo of me. I explained what its message meant.

  We walked out of the elevator toward the cafeteria. “Mighty expensive gold,” he muttered.

  I nodded. “Four more people died yesterday because of it.”

  “Not quite.” We continued along the first floor corridor. The Intensive Care Unit was on our right.

  Sam’s response finally registered. “What do you mean, ‘not quite’?”

  “Come with me.” He put the unlit cigarette in his shirt pocket, grabbed my right arm by the elbow, and led me into the I.C.U.

  Sam knocked before he stuck his oversized head inside the first door on the right. He entered and I followed.

  A tall black woman stood by the side of a bed in the center of the small room. She didn’t notice us. She just stared at the man who rested there, a mass of tubes and bandages.

  It was C.J.

  Sam whispered, “They found him halfway down the side of the crater, flush against a small juniper. Airlifted him here around midnight. The other guy was dead.”

  I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer, my first since the night Holly died. When I opened them, the woman had turned toward us, her face a mosaic of questions and pain.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  Sam flashed his badge. I moved over to her.

  “Charmaine?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Gabe McKenna.”

  The pain did not leave her face.

  We looked down at C.J. His eyes fluttered for a moment. He stirred and tried to speak, but the tubes prevented it. I took his hand and felt a squeeze.

  “I’m so sorry. Whatever this costs, whatever C.J. needs, I’ll pay for it. Everything. Don’t worry.”

  She looked at her husband. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you.”

  “Your husband is a hero,” I said in a quiet voice. She just looked at him and kept on crying.

  “Let’s go.” Sam caught my arm and pulled me out of the room.

  The cafeteria coffee tasted bitter. That seemed right. Sam had spoken to the doctors before he’d come to my room. C.J. had a fighting chance, but faced a long and painful recovery. His bad right leg had shattered again. He’d suffered internal injuries to his spleen and to one kidney. The damage to his back could mean a lifetime of pain. Of course Charmaine might want to do me in.

  I turned to Sam and fought back tears of my own. “What about Rebecca? If she’s going to be held, I want to post bail.”

  “I’ll let you know. Another cup?”

  “No thanks, but you go ahead.”

  Sam left me to my thoughts as he shuffled through the cafeteria line. After he sat down with cup number two, he leaned forward. “At least we won’t have to worry about O’Connor anymore.”

  I fumbled my coffee and sloshed some out onto the table. “I don’t know why I didn’t kill him myself.”

  “Because you’re not a killer, Gabe. That’s why.” Sam took as deep a breath as he could. “Carmen Flores will be buried quietly. No departmental honors or observances.”

  Sam’s words were no comfort. “What about my gold?”

  “Still insist it’s yours?” I caught the edge in his voice.

  “I’ve got written proof. That gold has belonged to my family for four generations. After what I’ve been through, you’re damn right it’s mine.”

  Sam rubbed his tired-looking eyes. “That’s not my decision. The A.P.D. took the gold from the cave and brought it into Albuquerque overnight. It’s in our main evidence locker. In the walk-in safe. I suspect you’ll hear from government officials soon. Render unto Caesar.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t disappear again.”

  He clutched at his heart in mock agony. “It hurts to hear you talk like that.”

  “Sorry, Sam. Guess I’ve been a lot of trouble.”

  “That you have. On the other hand, you did bring three killers to justice. When you’re feeling better I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I’m giving up booze.”

  Archuleta raised his eyebrows and stared.

  “It’s killing me slowly.” I looked at the cigarette he held in his hand. “Come to think of it, Sam—”

  “I gotta go.” He checked his watch and stood. “There’s a cop downstairs to take you home. Keep in touch.” He turned and left me there at the table.

  My coffee was bad to the last drop. Hard work lay ahead before I could secure my claim to the gold. I needed a lawyer. One from a different firm.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Erskine Pelfrey wiped his mouth with a bright yellow napkin and motioned me toward a seat in front of his desk. A pasty-skinned fellow about fifty years old, he ran his one-man law firm out of a square, one-story adobe building on Fourth Street. Metal bars covered all the windows.

  He sat in a huge, stuffed leather chair. With his rumpled brown suit collapsed about his thin frame, he looked like an inflatable device that had sprung a leak. As we spoke, he tore off pieces of a sandwich buried in a lunch box that lay open on the desktop in front of him. This guy lived alone.

  I explained about the gold and my need to have my claim to it legally certified. He made photocopies of James McKenna’s Will and other correspondence with Aunt Nellie. I let him browse through Red Gold.

  He put the manuscript down. “A slam-dunk, Professor. Your claim to this gold will be certified within two weeks.”

  “I’d like to believe that.” I didn’t mean to sound skeptical. It happened effortlessly.

  “You will, of course, have to pay whatever taxes are owed.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Probate law is a specialty of mine, Professor. New Mexico’s estate tax is a ‘pick up’ tax. The I.R.S. returns to the state a portion of the federal inheritance tax it will collect from your gold.”

  I shifted in my seat. “How much will they take?”

  “It all depends. Could be as high as fifty-five percent. Could be zero.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Pelfrey took a deep breath and his cheeks inflated, Dizzy Gillespie-like. “It depends on whether James McKenna or your great-aunt—what was her name?”

  “Nellie.”

  “—on whether either of them set up an irrevocable trust with their estates. In that case, the taxes would already have been paid and you get it all.”

  “How will I know?”

  “That’s where I earn my money. I’ll search state tax and real estate records back to 1921 and see what I can find. In any case, there will be no complications, I promise.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “My cousin is the State Attorney General’s wife. I’ll call you in a week with a progress report.” He reached into his lunch box. “Cookie?”

  I shook my head and bid good day to Erskine Pelfrey, Esquire.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  April 28

  For the next week or so, I was ‘The Man.’ Word got around that I’d found part of the Lost Adams gold. Requests poured in. I did one brief interview on a local Albuquerque television station. Big mistake. National media picked up the story and came calling. Today and Good Morning America wanted me. 60 Minutes offered me twenty minutes. The National Enquirer bid $150,000 for exclusive rights to my story. I turned them all down.

  Countless individuals pestered me with requests for financial assistance. I changed my phone number and rented a P.O. Box. When I went out in public, people crowded me and asked for favors or autographs.

  I stayed home most of the time. But personal grooming had lately taken a backseat to mayhem in my life. Eventually I had to venture out to get my haircut.

  My grizzled goatee and untamed hair presented a challenge to Francesca, a young, dark-haired beauty who gave me a shampoo and led me to her chair. She tried to turn my head into a fashion statement. I hoped she had the strength for it.

  She removed the hot towel th
at had covered my face for about a minute. “Mr. Gabe, I saw you on TV. What’s it like to be rich and famous?”

  Her innocent words were startling. Is that how the world saw me? The salon’s patrons and stylists gawked as I sat in Francesca’s chair. I felt the urge to crawl back under the towel.

  Sleep didn’t come that night. Around two o’clock I crawled from my bed and tottered to the kitchen. Otis sat on a table by the kitchen window. I startled him for a moment, but then he resumed his night watch of the backyard. Too late for food or drink, so I settled for a glass of water.

  The living room was dark. I lit a candle on the mantelpiece and put Von Karajan’s recording of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony on my old sound system. I sat on the sofa for the first time since enjoying an evening drink there with Carmen, a lifetime ago.

  I lay back and my eyes closed as Ode to Joy played on. When it ended, I felt nothing.

  Fifty-four-year-old Gabriel McKenna, late of New York, now down at the crossroads.

  Then my anger and deepest fears escaped from my control. I couldn’t say how long I cried.

  In the candle’s faint light, Holly appeared across the room. Her ethereal, shimmering presence tore me to pieces. I felt the pain of my loss more now than thirteen months ago, when her final breath brushed against my cheek. Now Holly’s luminous smile enveloped me in loving warmth. I felt her for a moment that I will always possess. Then she was gone.

  The candle flickered out. Alone in blackness, my pain and anger drained away. No words, no thoughts, I lay somewhere beyond it all.

  At some point, I must have made my way to the bedroom and to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  April 29

  “Good news!” the voice on the phone boomed.

  My eyes squinted against the morning light. “Who is this?”

  “Erskine Pelfrey. Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m lying down. What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”