Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  I followed and a few paces later jerked him to a halt. “Here. Sit down and wait.”

  Otis awkwardly lowered to the ground and sat quietly, staring out into the marsh. Part of me wished he'd try to escape. I knew exactly where I’d shoot to disable him. That bear trap hadn't been meant for Shepherd—it had been meant for me.

  Fifteen minutes later Ethan’s ATV roared up, two wheels on the path and the other two tearing up the bank side and throwing up a geyser of muddy water. One med tech sat next to Ethan holding the rescue cradle skyward like a surfboard. The other tech perched behind, clutching the emergency medical kit.

  The ATV slid to a stop in front of Shepherd, and the techs jumped off while Ethan reversed the vehicle to face the other direction. One tech checked Shepherd’s vitals and gave me a thumbs-up. Efficient hands stripped away the bloody T-shirt, swabbed the wound with disinfectant and re-bandaged it.

  Shepherd was loaded in, and the rescue cradle was securely fastened crossways on the back of the ATV. One tech leaned backward to hold the cradle in place and the other jogged behind the ATV steadying it, as Ethan gunned the vehicle back towards solid ground. The whole procedure took less than five minutes. Those guys were good.

  Now a second group of people ran towards us: Janny followed by men in ATF jackets and a sheriff’s deputy. What was Janny doing here? I’d asked Ethan to send Ruby Mae as a guide. But the reinforcements were a welcome relief. Otis hadn’t tried anything yet. I’d been lucky.

  Janny gave me a strange, almost guilty look when she neared. She looked past me, and then I knew.

  For in those short moments that my attention had focused on Shepherd, Otis had slipped into the water as smooth as a water moccasin, not even a ripple to show his passing. He had vanished into the marsh, handcuffs and all.

  At least the whiskey still remained, I reassured myself, reason enough for the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms team to make the trip. But I was to learn even that target was elusive. My phone call to Ethan, while saving precious minutes for Shepherd, also warned the Nettle clan of a possible raid on the whiskey still.

  With Janny assuming the role of guide, we ran into a series of too convenient delays. A recently fallen tree blocked the way and we had to push the branches to one side. Then the path split and Janny chose the wrong way to a dead end. We backtracked to the junction, losing several more minutes.

  When we finally reached the site of the whiskey still, crushed grass showed fresh earth stains—evidence of equipment recently moved. The remainder of the little meadow was empty. Nothing left but tipped barrels and empty gunny sacks scattered on the ground. The main apparatus had vanished as silently as Otis had.

  One ATF officer brushed at his wet pant leg. “Damn Nettle clan. Thought we had them this time.” He glared at me. “You brought us all the way out here for this? Check your intel better next time.” He snapped a few I-been-there pictures with his cell phone and left without another word.

  “Lost Otis, did you? Piss-poor work.” The second ATF officer scraped his shoe against a barrel stave, cleaving off a hunk of red mud, and followed his partner. Janny seemed to be the only one in a cheerful humor. Still avoiding my eyes she ran to catch up with the two men, flirting a little with them as they moved down the path.

  The sheriff's deputy touched my shoulder. “They were loading Shepherd into the ambulance when we arrived. You saved his life, kid.” Then he departed, too, leaving me alone in the disturbed, grassy space.

  My return hike back to the Nettles' homestead seemed to take forever, and Shepherd’s cautionary words echoed in my brain. “Don’t ever turn your back on Otis.” I had turned my back, and as a result, I’d lost him. Basic procedural error.

  A merciless judge perched on my shoulder and pronounced my shortcomings: You should have cuffed that S.O.B.'s feet. Why didn't you watch him? Might as well have announced your raid on the whiskey still with a bullhorn, telling Ethan who was coming. What did you think he’d do? Offer them lemonade?

  I didn’t deserve to be wearing this uniform. I’d made one dumb rookie mistake after another, and as a result, the Nettles were free and Shepherd was in a hospital emergency room.

  My eyes blurred and I tripped over a root, sprawling flat on the path. My knee hit a rock, tearing the skin and shredding what was left of my pant leg. My own blood seeped through the cloth, mingling with the bloodstains of my partner. Both palms were scraped raw, but I deserved the pain. The retention of Otis had been my responsibility and I blew it.

  When I reached the SUV, the ATF men were gone and the house was vacant with no sight of the Nettle family. They were probably sawing the cuffs off Otis or reassembling the whiskey still in yet another location. Having a good laugh at my expense while they did it.

  I climbed into the SUV and slammed the door. I beat my hands against the steering wheel and added my forehead for good measure. Then I swore, working through all my favorite phrases and throwing in a few repeats when I reached the end of the list. By the time I punched the key into the ignition and jammed the SUV into gear, the windshield was steamed with my hot words. Accelerating out of the yard in an angry skid of mud, I raced for the hospital. Would Shepherd be alive when I got there?

  Emergency Room

  9

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the hospital, I parked in the police slot near the emergency entrance. The nurse on duty had tired brown eyes that viewed my ruined uniform without expression.

  “Yes?”

  I presented my credentials. “I’m looking for a Shepherd Malone?”

  She looked at the computer list in front of her. “Shepherd? We have an Irving Malone.”

  “That's the one. Can I see him?”

  “He's in X-ray.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “You family?”

  “I’m his partner.”

  She shook her head. Apparently, partners were low on the nurse hierarchy. “Have a seat. I’ll call you when he’s back.”

  I flipped through an Entertainment Weekly so old even the tear out stubs were missing. I paced for a while and returned to the nurses’ station. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “Can’t say. Look, the cafeteria is just down that hall. Go get something to eat and I’ll call you.”

  I left my cell number and walked down the hall to the cafeteria. It was past the dinner hour and the display area gleamed with polished stainless steel racks and empty serving trays, but not much hot food. I settled on a Diet Coke, a stale muffin, and a yogurt cup. Added a piece of cherry pie to cheer up my taste buds and carried the tray to a table near the window.

  In a patio outside the dining room, a single white-crowned sparrow hunted for bugs. Fall-bare mesquite trees ringed the cement patio, their branches forming a ragged silhouette against the darkening sky.

  I mouthed the tasteless muffin, took a forkful of the too-sweet pie, and pushed the tray away. Food didn’t appeal to my roiling stomach. I wanted to know how Shepherd was doing. It was my fault he was here. The clock on the far wall stuttered at two seconds past the hour marker, then hiccupped and started again.

  The sparrow pecked against the glass. Sorry, bird. I wouldn’t even feed this stuff to you. I dumped the remains in the trash, took a last slug of the soda and tossed it, too. Surely Shepherd would be back from x-ray by now.

  The nurse looked up as I approached her desk. “I was about to call you. You can come back to see him now.” She clicked the lock open and I walked down the hall into the emergency triage room.

  Most of the U-drapes were open, revealing empty hospital beds. At the far end of the room, a familiar voice droned behind an enclosing curtain. I pulled back the hanging sheet and saw Shepherd lying flat on the bed.

  A nurse brushed past me, raised the head of the stretcher, and adjusted the head pillow. “Now do we feel better? I'll be right outside. Push this button if we need anything.”

  “Goddam medical 'we',” Shepherd grumbled. “I'd like to tell 'us' where to go.”

&
nbsp; Hadn’t lost his bad temper, anyway. That was a hopeful sign. “How you doing?” I asked.

  “They're talking surgery to repair the leg. Want to pump me full of dope, and I can't take pain pills. Call Dr. Cravets. He knows my background. He’ll tell them what to use.” He gritted his teeth, as though what he wanted was a big shot of anything, right now.

  “Will do. Is there family I can call?”

  His face twisted with pain. “No, nobody.” Changed the subject: “Heard you lost Otis. And the whiskey still was gone when you got there. Any good news on the case?”

  I reddened and kept my mouth shut.

  “Put out a Be-On-the-Lookout for that bastard. We need to put him out of commission.” He paled behind the bravado, sweat drops gleaming on his forehead.

  I promised I would and asked him if there was anything he needed.

  “House keys in the tray beneath the stretcher. Take those, feed Fluffy and give her meds.”

  “Fluffy?” Never figured Shepherd to be a Fluffy type.

  His wallet and keys were in the tray. I opened the wallet to check the home address on his license and put the wallet back with his cell phone. Kept the keys, and his service revolver for good measure. Never could tell when it might come in handy.

  “I'll call Dr. Cravets and feed the critter for you,” I said. “Don't worry about a thing. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Early in the morning,” Shepherd emphasized.

  Two orderlies appeared at the foot of the bed to move him to permanent quarters. I didn’t envy the night nurse, keeping track of an injured Shepherd with no pain medication. They wheeled the gurney down the hall.

  Dr. Cravets was unavailable when I called and his answering service was noncommittal. I emphasized the importance of the situation. I didn’t want my message stuck in a queue without action. “It's an emergency. They’re doing surgery on Shepherd—make that Irving—Malone. They need orders to give no narcotics.”

  The operator assured me the doctor would call the hospital, and I moved on to the second promise I'd made Shepherd—feeding Fluffy. Pet pig, iguana, hedgehog? Shepherd was a crossword puzzle addict, so the critter might be anything.

  ***

  IT WAS DARK when I started my drive to Shepherd’s place, but everything was close in Cottonwood, this small town situated between Black Mountain and the Verde River. From the Medical Center, I went down 89A toward the center of town and then right on a side street into the foothills, following the directions Shepherd had given me.

  My stomach was waking up now that I’d left the antiseptic smells of the hospital, but Fluffy came first. Like a good partner, I was there, setting my own needs aside in the quest of Shepherd’s pet-whatever. I’d grab a burger later.

  Shepherd lived in a small guest house situated behind a two-story rambler. I walked down a flagstone path, beyond a small fenced garden. Two hummingbird feeders hung near the front windows. The solid front door had two deadbolts and the main key lock. Even in the relatively burglary-free Verde Valley, I understood Shepherd’s need for caution. Being a cop changes your outlook that way.

  The deadbolts opened smoothly, as did the well-oiled front door lock. When I groped for a light switch and clicked it, something swiped at my hand, hissing. I jumped inside the door, slammed it behind me, and stared at four reddening welts on the back of my hand. I lurched into a small kitchen and held my hand under the faucet. The numbing cold water stemmed the bleeding, but I jumped back when Fluffy stalked into view.

  She was a tiny, black-and-white cat with a feathery tail that switched ominously as I reached down to pet her. The ears went back and I jerked my hand away just in time to avoid another attack. Son of a bitch! I was supposed to medicate this? I anticipated my coffee served on a gold tray when Shepherd returned to work.

  I’d never had an inside pet, and in fact, only got within six feet of the feral cat who nibbled at the food I put out on my balcony. But I’d seen my uncle work with the animals on the farm back in Tennessee. He even had this special bridle used for worming horses, designed so they couldn’t spit the stuff back out again.

  Didn’t see any bridle here. Too bad. It would make my life a lot easier. But it shouldn’t be too hard. This beast couldn’t be five pounds soaking wet—assuming you could get a cat like this near water.

  In the refrigerator door, I found a half-full can of cat food and a vial of pink liquid. The label read “Hill-Top Veterinary. Give one full syringe twice a day.” I unwrapped the cat food, dumped it on a plate, and syringed pink stuff on top.

  I set it down and stepped away. Fluffy seemed hungry, but she sniffed once, and then pawed at the plate, trying to bury it. Come on cat, it didn't smell that bad.

  Fluffy disappeared around the corner. When I pursued her into Shepherd's bedroom, she vanished under the bed. Pulling up the spread, I peered under. My knee, injured in the fall at the marsh, banged the wood floor and I winced.

  “Here, kitty, kitty.” Why do we say that to a cat? Fluffy didn't buy it, either. Two luminous eyes glared at me from a far corner, and she hissed. Would even this tiny ball of fluff defy me today?

  I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me to confine her to the space. Grabbing a broom from a closet, I stalked back. My seat-of-the-pants plan was to force her from under the bed. Beyond that, I had no clue. It would come to me.

  On my knees, I poked the broom at Fluffy and she retreated further into the corner. Another poke. She rushed past me, balked at the closed bedroom door, then raced around the perimeter of the room, and zipped into the bathroom. I slammed the bathroom door before she could escape.

  Time for more pink stuff. I retraced my steps to the kitchen, retrieved the medicine from the refrigerator, and jammed it in my back pocket. Once back in the bedroom, I slammed the door behind me and stomped over to the closed bathroom door.

  I went down on hands and knees and opened the bathroom door slowly, thinking to grab Fluffy as she tried to escape. She had other plans. A black and white paw zipped through, claws extended. Her head followed and I jerked back reflexively. She leaped on top of my back, all claws extended, riding me like a Brahma bull. I crashed against the bed and she released her hold and dropped to the floor.

  I grabbed her, ducked into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind us. All four feet were scrabbling as the cat writhed in a boneless fury, trying to latch onto me. One back claw caught my palm and ripped a jagged wound. Swearing, I dropped the maniacal fur ball and she scooted behind the shower curtain. More blood ran down the sink as I rinsed the wound. Were cat scratches fatal? Shepherd owned me unlimited coffee service and a whole week's exclusive use of the SUV.

  The medicine cabinet yielded a box of band aids and I tore two open with my teeth and applied them single-handedly to the bleeding wound on my palm. Time to finish this. I grabbed the bottle of pink liquid from my back pocket, reloaded the syringe, and set it on the counter. If I had to stake out this bathroom all night, if I had to grow a third hand, this beast would not win.

  I yanked a bath towel from the bar and slowly drew back the shower curtain. Fluffy crouched in a corner, her eyes wide. I dropped the bath towel over her and bundled her tight like a burrito. In the towel's darkness, her fight disappeared and she went quiet. I wrapped the towel tighter and started feeling for body parts. Tail, no. Foot, definitely no. When I located her head, I slowly unwrapped it. Fluffy glared at me and strained to free one paw. Not yet, cat. I tightened my grip and wedged the bundle under my elbow.

  Fluffy’s ears flattened and a low growl rumbled from deep within the towel. Reaching over for the syringe, I held on tight, pulled back the neck scruff, and pried open her jaw with my other hand. Just a little wider, cat.

  Fluffy sputtered and shook her head furiously when the medicine entered her throat. Instantly cat, bathroom, and I were splattered with pink liquid. Done! I dropped Fluffy on the floor and opened the door. She wriggled free from the towel and streaked under the bed.

  I sat there on
the toilet seat, catching my breath. How much pink medicine got inside? Didn't matter. Quest complete. Peg Quincy, victor. I swiped at the pink stains on my arms and rehung the towel. Shepherd could figure out the rose abstract on the walls for himself.

  Then I returned to the kitchen where a zone of quiet reigned. I reached into a cabinet for a glass, ran a drink of water, and headed into the living room. Time to find out what this new partner of mine was all about. In a way, he'd given me permission. Offered me the keys to his house, didn’t he?

  I plopped into an oversized brown leather chair and surveyed the room. Some amateurish oils, mostly desert scenes, on the wall. No TV, but he had an old-fashioned phonograph. I set down the water glass and walked over for a look-see. Straight ahead jazz: Dave Brubeck and Miles Davis. And some fifties stuff in dusty albums: Elvis, the Brothers Four, Buddy Holly. Before my time. Hadn't he heard of Coldplay?

  A small bookshelf held Westerns and casual reads: Louie L'Amour and Tony Hillerman, some Michael Connelly and A Game of Thrones. He had the entire series of books by Martin. Of course he would, being Shepherd. I’d gotten bogged down in the first volume. Always meant to go back and finish it, but didn’t see the need now that television had macerated it. A copy of the Alcoholics Anonymous big book. Interesting. That would fit his “no meds” request.

  And some photographs. One, a small girl holding the black-and-white cat. A daughter? Shepherd hadn’t said anything about family. Another photo showed a younger Shepherd in police uniform, posing with a trophy cup and a German shepherd. I picked it up. The engraving on the picture's frame said, “Grand Champion K-9 team, Irving Malone and the Kaiser of Destruction.” Handlers sometimes brought their dogs home when they got too old to work, but no canine presence here in Shepherd’s house, just Fluffy. She’d run off any dog that dared apply for the job of night watchman, anyway.

  With a small meow, she rubbed against my leg as hunger triumphed over revenge. I returned to the kitchen, poured out the rest of my water in the sink and dumped the untouched pink-stained cat food into the trash. Time to find more food for the cat. In a cupboard, one shelf contained a bag of brown rice and another of dry pinto beans. Shepherd, a vegetarian? Fluffy's food was stacked in neat rows in the next cabinet I opened.