Meehan stopped in front of a rock stable that encircled a stone granary. He found a flashlight in the glove box, pulled Sara out of the vehicle, and removed the gag.
Sara looked at the granary. Chiseled stone steps twisted around the outside of the tower. At the base, an entrance wide enough for a horse and wagon stood like an open black mouth. The house, an old hacienda undergoing restoration, was roofless. Scaffolding surrounded the walls, and a parapet had been rebuilt with new bricks. Freshly peeled vigas-beams for the ceiling--were secured to the walls, and rough wood framing defined new openings for doors and windows.
"This is interesting," Sara said. "Is it a new theme park?" Meehan smiled.
"It's more like a nature center. Let me show you around. There's one attraction I think you'll really like." Sara looked pale and dispirited, in spite of the attempt at humor. She had softened up nicely, Meehan thought. He turned her by the shoulders, pushed her against the hood of the car, and cut the rope around her ankles. She spun, kicked for his groin, and missed, catching him on the shin instead. He slapped her in the mouth with the butt end of the flashlight. She fell against the Cherokee, stunned but conscious.
Meehan grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her neck. "You think you're a tough little bitch, don't you?" he snarled.
"No," Sara answered. She could feel the blood in her mouth. "I'm not a bitch at all."
"Move, cunt." He pushed her along in front of him, through the remnants of a kitchen, past a crumbling adobe fireplace, to a stone staircase that descended to an underground room. Sara balked at the top step, and he jabbed her in the kidney with the flashlight. She stumbled forward, Meehan holding her by the handcuffs to keep her from falling. Bags of concrete on pallets, milled lumber, and construction equipment filled the underground room. De Leon's restoration project was further along than Meehan had realized. It meant he would need to deal quickly with Sara to avoid any chance encounters with the construction crew.
He prodded her through the large room, past a pile of tarpaulins and rags, to a massive wooden door anchored in the bedrock by thick iron hinges. He raised the heavy latch and pulled the door open. The air, cool and stale-smelling, rushed out. Sara recoiled, so he jabbed her again in a kidney to force her to move.
"Get in," he ordered, pointing the beam of the flashlight into the pitch-black room. He pushed her to her knees and lit a kerosene lamp that hung from the low ceiling.
"Stand up and turn around," he said when the lamp was burning. Sara did as she was told. The rock walls of the tiny room were uneven and black with soot. The jagged ceiling was inches above her head. The lamp cast a pale glow.
"Is this what you wanted to show me?" she asked. Meehan nodded and poked at some rotting boards with the toe of his shoe. A dozen insects scurried into view.
"Scorpions?" Sara asked.
"Big ones," Meehan confirmed, lifting the lamp off the hook and setting it on the ground.
"Heat attracts them. Especially body heat. Some of them drop from the ceiling. Keep your chin up." She stared at Meehan with loathing. He stepped back, swung the door shut, and threw the latch.
"I'll try to get back before the lamp runs out of fuel," he called to her.
"If not, keep yourself entertained."
"Screw you," Sara replied. She barely heard Meehan's receding laughter as he walked away, her attention riveted on the ceiling. The thought of scorpions falling on her made her shudder. She saw an insect dart from under a board and squashed it with her boot. She killed several more
before she realized that she was crying.
***
Eddie sat in his car feeling frustrated. Bordertown Storage Company was a series of long, rectangular concrete buildings surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped off with concertina wire. Finding it was no sweat, but locating the locker Benton had rented would be an entirely different matter. He coasted to the motorized gate and stopped at the curb. The manager's office inside the fence was closed for the night. The sign on the door advertised twenty-four-hour access, but there was no way in unless he climbed the fence and crawled over the concertina wire. He drove slowly past the gate and looked down the long rows of buildings, hoping somebody was inside who would let him in. The aisles, wide enough for semitrailers to maneuver in, were empty. He went back to the front gate and wrote down the phone number on the company sign. Back at the bar he would call, get somebody to come out to open up, and wait for Kerney. He turned the car around and headed back toward the barrio. ***
Leaving the Little Turtle, Carlos was in fine spirits. Instead of having him beaten, as he'd expected, De Leon had given him an entry card and a locker key and ordered him to go to El Paso to search a storage unit. A careful man by nature, Carlos took his customary precautions. He drove past the business without stopping, and circled behind two large warehouses opposite the storage units. He parked in the darkness, took out his binoculars, and trained them on the fenced compound. He studied each aisle thoroughly. All seemed quiet. He would wait ten minutes before entering, just as a precaution. He put his thumb in his mouth and adjusted his upper plate. Headlights appeared on the pavement, and a car came into view, traveling slowly. It stopped in front of storage compound, motor running. He picked up the binoculars, but the glare of the lights by the gate blocked his view into the car. After a few minutes, the car moved away. Soon the car came back, and Carlos picked up the driver in his glasses. He grinned to himself when he recognized Eddie, the phony jorobado. He put aside the binoculars and reached for his gun. It would be interesting to talk to Eddie again, Carlos thought. Eddie's car made a U-turn, and Carlos started his engine, headlights off. He let Eddie travel a short distance away from the bright lights before he made his move. He accelerated, jumped the curb, and rammed into the rear of Eddie's vehicle. The collision was harder than Carlos anticipated. Both cars recoiled, tires skidding, as Eddie responded to the sudden impact by hitting the brakes. Carlos was thrown forward, the seat belt tightening across his chest. He only had seconds in which to act. He got out, ran to Eddie's car, pulled open the door, and stuck his pistol in Eddie's face.
"My little jorobado friend," Carlos growled. "It is very nice to see you again." He brought the barrel of his weapon down on the front of Eddie's head. As Eddie slumped forward, he caught him, then pulled him from the car and carried him into the darkness between two buildings. He dumped Eddie next to a propane gas tank and went back to the automobiles stalled in the middle of the street. He kicked the pieces of broken glass toward the gutter and moved the cars to the curb, parking them close together to hide the damage.
Eddie was still unconscious when he returned. He rifled his pockets, found a wallet and a small leather case, and used his cigarette lighter to inspect the contents. The case contained a military police badge and an identification card with Eddie's picture. The hunchback was a United States Army criminal investigator. Carlos grunted. Don Enrique would be very pleased to have Eddie back. And pleased with Carlos, also. The wallet was less interesting, except for the money.
Carlos extracted and counted the bills: over seven hundred dollars. Masquerading as a beggar was profitable. He put the money into his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and nudged Eddie with the toe of his shoe to see if he was awake. Eddie did not move. Using his lighter, he inspected Eddie's face. He was still unconscious. The blow to the head had sliced the scalp. A flap of skin dangled at the hairline on Eddie's forehead, and blood trickled down his face.
As soon as Eddie stirred, Carlos sat him upright against the propane tank. He wanted Eddie to see what was going to happen to him. He placed Eddie's hands palm down on the pavement of the parking lot and waited for his eyes to open. When they did, Carlos stomped on each hand with the heel of his shoe.
***
Kerney stopped in front of the bar. Before he could get out of the truck, a fat hooker with a round, cherubic face leaned inside the open window. She wore a sleeveless dress that showed tattoos on both of her substantial arms. "No thanks," Kerney sa
id, pushing against the door to move her out of the way. Her bulk made it impossible for him to budge her.
"Are you Kerney?" the hooker asked.
"Yes," Kerney answered, puzzled.
"Eddie asked me to give you a message."
"What is it?"
"He said you'd pay me." Kerney didn't believe her but decided not to quibble.
"How much?"
"Fifty dollars," the hooker announced.
Kerney dug out his wallet and handed over the money. It was the last of his emergency cash.
"What's the message?" he demanded. The hooker pulled down the top of her dress and stuck the bills inside her push-up brassiere. There was a tattoo of the Virgin Mary above her left breast.
"He went to the self-storage units. He said if he wasn't back when you got here, you could find him there."
"What self-storage units?" Kerney asked. The hooker pointed down the street. The fat underside of her arm jiggled.
"Bordertown Storage. You can't miss it. Look for the lights." Kerney nodded, clutched, and put the truck in gear. His right foot missed the accelerator and the engine stalled. He was having a hell of a time with the leg.
"Want me to drive you there for another fifty dollars?" the hooker asked with a grin. Kerney glared at her.
"No thanks." He restarted the engine and drove down the street behind a slow string of low-riders. He was annoyed at Eddie. Deja vu all over again, he thought. Another cop who couldn't stay put. Away from the clip joints and motels, rows of assembly plants, sweatshops, and warehouses lined the street. Beacons from the smelter stacks across a field blinked warnings to aircraft in the night sky. The glow of a bank of mercury vapor lights announced the presence of
Borderland Storage. Kerney drove past two parked cars and stopped at the locked front gate.
There was no sign of Eddie. He cruised for a block before swinging back for another pass. His headlights picked up fresh skid marks and small bits of reflective plastic in the middle of the street near the cars. One car had a Chihuahua license plate. He couldn't see the other license plate, but there was damage to both vehicles. That was enough for Kerney. He turned onto a side street, killed the engine, and got his pistol from the glove box. His knee barely tolerated the shock as he trotted to the cars. He was halfway there when he heard Eddie scream.
Chapter 12.
There was something wet and sticky in Eddie's left eye. He blinked, squinted, looked up, and saw Carlos standing over him. Before he could move, he felt a horrible pain in his right hand. He screamed, and screamed again as Carlos stomped on his other hand. Gasping, he shook his head, trying to stay conscious.
"You bastard." It was all he could manage. His hands felt cemented to the asphalt.
"You speak pretty good English for a jorobado," Carlos said, lighting another cigarette, waiting for Eddie to pull himself together.
"What are you doing here, Eddie?"
"Fuck off," Eddie answered, trying to move his right hand. Carlos hit him in the mouth. Eddie's head bounced off the tank. He sucked in a deep breath and waited for the throbbing to stop.
"Are you working with that gringo Kerney?" Carlos asked. Eddie shook his head.
"No."
"You're a lying piece of shit," Carlos retorted, balling his hand to a beefy fist. Eddie turned his head so Carlos wouldn't hit him in the mouth again. The punch caught him high on the cheek. Eddie winced and sucked in more air. Blood made it impossible to see out of his left eye.
"Finished?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Just starting, you puta. Tell me why you're here."
"I'll tell you," Eddie replied. "Just don't hit me again, all right?" Carlos relaxed and nodded
approvingly.
Kerney stood behind Carlos, at the corner of the warehouse, with a finger at his lips.
"Give me a minute, will you?" Eddie asked.
"Sure, but make it fast. I don't have time to play with you." Eddie coughed and mumbled something under his breath.
"What?" Carlos asked.
"I said fuck you," Eddie replied as Kerney brought the pistol butt down on Carlos's head. Eddie liked it a lot when Kerney hit Carlos again.
"Madre de Dios, I'm glad to see you," he said, staring at Carlos's prone body. Kerney reached for his hand to help him to his feet.
"Not the hands," Eddie barked.
"He broke all my fingers."
Kerney knelt down and looked. It was too dark to see the extent of the damage. Kerney grabbed Eddie under the arms, lifted him to his feet, and propped him against the propane tank.
"I think I'm going to faint," Eddie said.
"Hold on." Kerney took out a handkerchief, pushed the flap of loose skin back into place against Eddie's forehead, and dabbed the blood from his eye.
"Thanks," Eddie said weakly. Kerney kept his hand on Eddie's chest to hold him upright. He could feel Eddie's rapid heartbeat.
"How's your head?"
"Spinning."
"Can you stand without falling?" Eddie, eyes closed, waited for the sensation to subside before he answered.
"Of course I can."
"Are you sure?" Eddie opened his eyes and made a face. His teeth hurt.
"Just don't ask me to walk yet." Kerney let go, retrieved Eddie's wallet and badge case from the asphalt, and searched Carlos. He found a key, a card, and some money in a coat pocket. He used Carlos's cigarette lighter to inspect the stuff.
"What have you got?" Eddie asked.
"A way into the storage compound." He held up the folded bills.
"Your money?"
"Army funds," Eddie said. "Keep it for me." Kerney nodded, used his belt to tie Carlos's hands behind his back, flipped him over, and positioned him within kicking distance of Eddie's foot.
"I'll be back in a minute. If Carlos wakes up while I'm gone, kick him in the nuts."
"Gladly," Eddie replied. It took only a few minutes for Kerney to return, cuff Carlos, and dump him in the bed of the truck. Under the glare of the headlights he sat Eddie down and inspected his hands. The knuckles were fractured. He bandaged them with tape from his first-aid kit while Eddie winced and refused to look.
"How are they?" he asked when Kerney finished.
"Broken," Kerney answered, cleaning Eddie's head wound and covering it with a Band-Aid.
"I know that. How bad?" Eddie demanded. Kerney considered what to say as he pulled Eddie to his feet.
"You'll be fine after the doctors work on you," he promised. "I've seen a lot worse."
"You're not lying to me?"
"No, I'm not. Let's get you to a hospital."
"No way," Eddie said gamely.
"First I want to see what's in that storage unit."
"You need a doctor."
"So do you, for chrissake," Eddie retorted.
"Are you sure you're up to it?"
"Yeah. Let's go look. I want to see if all the shit you told me is real."
"So do I," Kerney agreed. He left Eddie alone in the glare of the headlights, got behind the wheel of the truck, and opened the passenger door. If Eddie couldn't walk under his own steam, he would take him directly to the hospital. Eddie stood with a disgusted look on his face, his bandaged hands cradled at his chest. He wobbled to the truck and climbed in. Kerney reached over and closed the door. Kerney opened the overhead garage door to the storage unit, turned on the lights, and drove his truck inside. Scattered around the room were sealed crates, packing boxes, and wardrobe trunks. He got a tire iron from the truck, walked to a large wooden crate, and pried it open while Eddie stood next to him.
"Madre de Dios," Eddie said. The crate was filled with dozens of antique Army rifles, all in mint condition.
"Isn't that something?" Kerney asked with amazement. They moved on and found military uniforms by the dozen, boxes filled with spurs, saddle blankets, and headgear, and crates brimming with sabers, pistols, and scabbards. One large box held cavalry saddles by the score. Reading Gutierrez's list was one thing, but actually
seeing the cache was mind boggling The urge to open everything was almost irresistible. Kerney forced himself to stop, checked on Carlos, who hadn't stirred, and dragged him out of the bed of the truck.
"Have you seen enough?" he asked Eddie as he propped Carlos against a packing crate.
"Amazing," Eddie replied.
"It's like something from a movie." Carlos started to come around. He groaned and looked at Kerney with hate-filled eyes.
"You hit me pretty hard, gringo," he said.
"You'll live," Kerney said.
"You won't," Carlos replied, glancing at Eddie. Kerney lifted Carlos's chin with the point of the tire iron.
"Pay attention to me, Carlos. No threats. Cooperate and I won't fuck you up. Give me the names of Benton's partners."
"Eat shit," he answered. Kerney poked the tire iron into Carlos's Adam's apple, cutting the skin. Blood trickled from the wound.
"I'll make a deal with you, Carlos. Talk and I won't rip out your larynx." He dug the tip in farther, and Carlos started choking. Unable to speak, Carlos nodded his head.
"Who were Benton's partners?"
"I know only one other," Carlos answered. "A gringo, like you."
"His name?" Kerney increased the pressure slightly.
"I don't know. Senor De Leon did business with him privately."
"What kind of business?" Kerney demanded, pressing a bit harder at Carlos's Adam's apple.
"I don't know," Carlos gurgled.
A voice behind Kerney spoke.
"He's telling you the truth, Lieutenant."
Kerney pivoted to find James Meehan looking at him over the barrel of a pistol. For some reason, Kerney wasn't surprised. "Captain Meehan."
"Drop the tire iron," Meehan ordered. Kerney did as he was told.
Meehan's eyes found Eddie; another unexpected factor in the equation. He glanced at the bandages on Tapia's hands.
Tularosa - Michael McGarrity Page 21
