Breath of Hell (Harry Bauer Book 8)

by Blake Banner

  “He created teams,” said the brigadier, “whose task it was to travel the country—here and in Mexico—identifying vulnerable children, and in some cases families, and kidnapping them or luring them here for the purpose of exploiting them. I need hardly say that what they looked for was children who had never been exposed to this kind of nightmare. What he sought to capture with the camera was the fear. Fear and submission is what this monster is hungry for.”

  I set down my glass and snarled. “I thought the Feds were supposed to be on top of this kind of thing. Isn’t this what they’re there for? How the hell can they allow something like that to happen?”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid, Harry, that sometimes the law is a self-defeating institution, because it has to protect people’s rights and freedoms, and obey its own rules. The operation went on for over a year. The Bureau knew it was going on and they were monitoring it, but they were unable to get the kind of evidence they would need for probable cause. They had a team trying to identify where the HQ and the studio were located in the hope of being able to raid them. But they had very little success, until a field agent in Arizona informed them that he believed Oz was running some kind of operation in the hills north of Eden. Efforts were intensified, but they were still unable to identify a studio, or gather anything remotely like probable cause to raid the HQ.”

  “So what happened?”

  “A team of federal agents eventually managed to follow four of his gang to the studio in New Mexico. They now had a location, but still nothing they could take to a judge and ask for a warrant. So, in frustration, they took matters into their own hands and broke into the studio after the gang members had returned to HQ in Arizona. They took photographs and video footage of everything they could find and grabbed computers, laptops, films—everything you could hope for. Their plan was to deliver it anonymously to their own team. That way the person acquiring the evidence would have committed a felony in breaking in and stealing it, but the investigative team would be off the hook and free to adduce it as evidence to the court.”

  “Good, what happened?”

  “They committed that most cardinal of sins. They underestimated their enemy. He had concealed motion-activated CCTV cameras all over the studio. He filmed and recorded every move they made and every word they said.” He paused, then intoned, “‘If you know your enemy and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither your enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.’” He shrugged. “Obviously they had not read their Sun Tzu, and every bit of evidence they acquired was ruled inadmissible by the judge, and the case was kicked out of court, defeated before it had even started.”

  “Who was the judge?”

  “Judge Casper Williams, but he only did what any judge in America would have been obliged to do, apply the law to the facts. It is, if you will forgive me saying so, one of the more asinine features of an otherwise sound legal system. By all means, punish the agents—punish them severely if you will—but the evidence should be judged admissible or not on the basis of its probative value, not on how it was acquired. Still, there it is. On the evening of the hearing in chambers, Oz was out on the streets of Tucson celebrating at the Three Points Casino.”

  He fell silent and after a moment the colonel said, “Of course, on the upside his operation had to stop, but on the downside he is now free to start another one. And knowing him, it will be even worse than the previous one.”

  I stared at her. “How could it possibly be worse?”

  The brigadier grunted. “You’ve been in Helmand, use your imagination.”

  I went cold inside. I felt my skin crawl, and I knew that as long as that man was alive he would not stop pushing the limits of his own evil.

  “What do the Feds say?”

  He took a deep breath. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation says that the law must be upheld and enforced at all costs and under all circumstances. An alleged, un-attributable source claims that the team who were investigating Oz’s operation are certain that his success has emboldened him and he is preparing a new operation in New Mexico. He has moved there, to Manuel Vazquez County, which is about as remote and isolated as you can get in the United States without moving to Alaska, and he has bought a property about thirteen or fourteen miles northeast of Dell City, about seven miles north of the Texas state line, as the crow flies, and not very far from his old studio. Rumor has it that he still has stuff hidden there.”

  I said, “If he’s gone that remote it’s because he doesn’t want to be seen.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And if the Feds or the Sheriff’s Department go anywhere near them, his lawyers will slap them with every kind of injunction known to man, and probably sue for damages into the bargain.”

  The colonel nodded. “You can bet your bottom dollar on it.”

  “And within the month this bastard will be preying on children again, not only with impunity, but protected by the law.”

  The brigadier refilled our glasses. “In a nutshell,” he said, “yes.”

  “So, if I accepted this job which you are not offering me, how would this work?”

  The colonel leaned forward and placed her glass on the table.

  “For a start you would have to understand that you were committing murder, and there would be no get out of jail free card for you here.”

  “I get that.”

  “Second, whatever files you may remove from the brigadier’s office, or mine, during your visit, cannot be traced to us and do not have our fingerprints on them.”

  “I understand all of that,” I said, “what I need to know, in real, practical terms, is to what extent can you help me? Logistically, how much useful information can you give me—names, addresses, numbers, locations—and how do I get to this bastard?”

  “In real, practical terms, I have a file with all the relevant information on where he is and what he is doing, to the best of the Bureau’s understanding—which is not a great deal, and that is on my desk because I have forgotten to put it away. As to how do you get to the bastard…” He made a question with his face which involved raising his eyebrows and looking at the colonel. “Jane?”

  “Wait,” she said, “let’s take one step at a time. In terms of weapons we cannot provide you with any hardware.”

  The words were incongruous coming from such a feminine face, decorated with diamonds and bathed in candlelight. I tried not to smile. If she noticed she ignored me.

  “Whatever weapons you need you will have to secure either from your private arsenal or from a private supplier. In Arizona and New Mexico that is not going to be a problem. Now—” She looked at her glass and turned it around a few times, like she was looking for the best angle. “As to how you get to him, physically, he has a property about three and a half miles northwest of Hope, which is a census designated place about twelve miles northeast of Dell City. It’s a farming community. There are about three hundred and fifty inhabitants all told. You can stay at the saloon. It’s called the Horns of the Dilemma. There’s not a lot else to tell about the town.”

  The brigadier said, “Oz lives at his property. It’s called the Farm. Apparently they get whatever they need from the town. Sometimes they pay, sometimes they don’t.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Matías Olvera, he’s based in Vazquez, the county seat, about fifty miles northwest of Hope by winding road. They get a lot of stray sheep up there, so he has his hands pretty full. From what I hear, the last time he went to Hope was about two weeks after Oz moved in to the Farm, about six months ago. He hasn’t been back since.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “He’s not going to be a problem, then.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  The colonel drained her glass and slid it across the table toward the brigadier. As he refilled it she said, “Now, your m
ain problems are two: first, how many men are you up against? We have zero reliable intel on that. It is unlikely to be less than twelve, and unlikely to be more than a hundred.”

  I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not really.” She shook her head. “Crazy cults like these can end up attracting a lot of people. What’s the membership of the Hell’s Angels? Two or three thousand? Koresh had almost a hundred people on his ranch when the Feds stormed it, and Bhagwan Shri Rajneesh had two thousand people living at his so-called Rancho Rajneesh, in Oregon. We just have no idea what he has going on out there, but whatever it is, it has the allure of plenty of money, sex, drugs and rock and roll.”

  “OK, understood, and my second problem?”

  “Your second is going to be getting enough reliable intelligence to develop an executable plan. They are reclusive, largely self-reliant, well organized and they have the people of Hope terrorized. So getting reliable information will be difficult and dangerous.” She raised a finger and nodded as another thought came to her. “And, he is IT literate and has skilled nerds working for him. He may be operating in Hicksville, but his techs are up to the minute.”

  I grunted. Neither problem was insurmountable. “What we’re talking about is a period of recon and then developing a workable plan. That’s standard operating procedure.”

  The brigadier nodded. “Yes, but in the kind of environment we are looking at here, in a standard operation you would have the support of three other blades. In this case you are alone. And I do mean alone. Much as we would like to, we cannot help you.”

  “You don’t need to keep telling me that, sir, I understood it the first time. You drummed it into me in the Regiment. Never get into a fight you don’t know you can win. I’ll recon. If it’s doable, I’ll do it. If it’s not, I’ll nuke the place.”

  He smiled, put his hands on the arms of the chair and stood.

  “I’d expect no less from you. I must excuse myself. And, Harry, my study is unlocked and I have a very sensitive file on my desk, with a duplicate beside it. Be a good chap and don’t go in and filch it, will you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  We watched him go inside, then sat in a silence that could have been comfortable and companionable, or uncomfortable and awkward, depending on how much you had drunk. I hadn’t drunk enough. I gave her the kind of smile you give someone when you’re not sure whether to smile or not. It didn’t matter much because she was staring at her glass and didn’t see it.

  “Are we done talking about not-work?”

  “Yup.” She gave a single slow nod at her glass.

  “Can I ask how you’ve been? I half expected you to quit.[11] You haven’t been in touch.”

  “No,” she said, with unnecessary ambiguity. I waited for her to clear up the ambiguity but she just kept staring at her glass. Eventually I asked her, “No, I can’t ask how you’ve been, or no, you haven’t been in touch?”

  “Alex, the brigadier, whatever, he told me what you did.” She looked at me and frowned. “What you went through. I am very conflicted, Harry. I feel guilty.”

  “What about?”

  She gave a quiet laugh and offered me a sardonic smile.

  “Come on, Mr. Tough Guy. I know you play the indestructible man of iron, and I know to some extent it is real, but I also know you’re human, and I know you suffered a lot. Not just physically. I know you went through a lot of anxiety too…”

  Before she could finish I nodded and interrupted. “Yeah, that has a name, Jane.” She paused and eyed me. I said, “It’s called life. If you live in a three-dimensional, physical world, there is going to be pain. It’s as unavoidable as time and space. We don’t get to choose on that score. What we do get to choose is how we deal with that pain.” I shook my head. “You won’t hear me talk like this very often, so you had better pay attention, Colonel. If somebody I care about is in trouble, then I choose to deal with that pain by fighting to help that somebody. And I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

  “Harry…”

  “Wait. I’m not done. Your family were threatened and you did what you had to do to protect them. You should not feel guilty about that. You did the right thing. The only place you screwed up was in not telling me from the start.”

  She frowned and returned her attention to her cognac. “Thank you.” She said it like she wasn’t really sure. “Harry, you said,” she hesitated, “you said ‘a person you cared about.’”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean care about as a friend?”

  I sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “I know. But we can only control how we behave, Jane, not how we feel.”

  She took a deep breath, seemed about to say something, then smiled an empty smile and said, “I had better go up.”

  She stood and I stood with her. She placed a hand softly on my chest.

  “Good night, Harry. And thank you, for everything.”

  If she hadn’t kissed me softly on the cheek, I don’t know what I would have done. But she did, and that killed anything else that might have happened. Then she brushed past me and disappeared inside. For a moment I almost went after her, but the impulse never became action. Instead I sighed very deeply, sat back down under the sneering moon, and poured myself another dram of solace.

  Three

  I took my Jeep, an overhauled 1999 Cherokee, and drove via Ohio, Indiana, Missouri and Oklahoma, then cut through the Panhandle on the I-40 toward Albuquerque. At Santa Rosa I turned south on Route 54, and felt for the first time I was in New Mexico, with the long, straight road plunging south through a yellow desert of dry grass and shrubs, under a menacing sky.

  I passed White Sands and Alamogordo, and a bunch of roadside diners, motels and gas stations with flying saucers parked nearby, and after almost three hours I came to the intersection with the Owen Prather Highway and turned east. That part of New Mexico along Route 54 already feels a little isolated, despite the tourism attracted by the UFO stories, but when you turn east, toward Vazquez County, things get real remote. The vast, open spaces, the miles of scorching, parched desert, the emptiness, all become paradoxically claustrophobic. It feels like the burning emptiness is closing in on you, and there is nowhere to escape.

  I followed the highway through barren flatlands for fifty miles, and then started climbing into the southern foothills of the Sacramento Mountains as the sun declined behind me, turning them an eerie shade of lavender pink.

  I bypassed the tiny town of Vazquez at just before eight. It looked like a grid of dusty roads peppered with dilapidated wooden houses and pickup trucks. I put thoughts of homemade burgers and ice-cold beers out of my mind and kept going. I crossed the hills and connected with State Road 506, south, and after that it was an hour through growing darkness in absolute wilderness, under a translucent sky with more stars than you could dream of, peppering infinity with tiny shards of ice.

  When I finally reached Hope it was after ten at night and all the lights in town were out, with a few notable exceptions. There were four ancient streetlamps posted along Main Street, that looked more like extremely tall, one-eyed aliens than lighting appliances. They cast a lugubrious, orange glow that didn’t so much illuminate as create shadows, in which cars slept behind black windshields.

  I passed scattered houses, each sitting in its own dustbowl. Here and there a razor of light sliced through closed drapes. The church on the corner of Vazquez Avenue lay dormant under the weight of its own cross. Then there was the auto repair shop, which looked like a mechanical massacre littered with steel bodies. But next door these was the Abandoned Hope Saloon Bar. As I cruised past I read the inscription under the sign. It said, “Here Shall Ye Find No Salvation but Liquor.” The lights were on and the music was drowned out by the voices and the laughter inside.

  Next, on the corner of White Sands Road, was the Horns of the Dilemma Inn. The entrance was
at the top of seven steps at the corner of the building, forming a kind of triangular porch with a longhorn skull fixed over the doors.

  I parked out front, grabbed my shoulder bag from the back seat and my kit bag from the trunk and climbed the seven steps. The doors under the horns were blond wood and glass, and gave on to a dimly lit lobby with a desk and an office on the right, a lounge with TV on the left and stairs directly ahead. Two potted plants segregated the lounge from the lobby. The TV was on, but nobody was watching it. I whacked the bell with my open palm.

  Something moved in the office and a man in his seventies came out holding a newspaper. He peered at me over his reading glasses and whatever he saw made him frown. He said, “Yes?”

  “Henry Brennan, I booked a room.”

  His frown deepened. “Oh, yes. People don’t often book rooms here. Can’t think why anyone would want to come here at all, ’less they had to.”

  He approached the desk, grabbed a ledger from below and put it in front of me. There was no computer. “Sign here,” he said, pointing. “Room three oh-four. Third floor, end of the passage on the right.” He took a key from a pigeonhole behind him and dropped it on the ledger. “How long will you be staying?”

  I took the key. “I’m not sure. Maybe a week or so.”

  He stared at me a moment. “Mostly we get traveling salesmen, and a few seasonal laborers who work on the farms down in Dell City. We have a couple of men in the town who ain’t married, and we do for ’em.” He paused. I didn’t say anything so he came out and asked. “Mind me askin’ what brings you to this particular corner of hell, Mr. Brennan?”

  I smiled. “I don’t mind you asking, Mr…?”

  “Jones. Me and my wife own this place, my parents and grandparents did before us.”

  On an impulse he held out his hand and I shook it. “Bill,” he said, “William Jones atcher service.”

  “How do you do,” I replied. “I’m a writer, Mr. Jones, and I have a contract to write a novel which is set down here in the southwest. But my wife, whom I adore, never stops talking, so I packed up my laptop, climbed in the old Cherokee, and drove here from New York to find some peace and tranquility, so I could work.”