by Gale Borger
Mag kept watch on Rob’s vitals. Ian and I sifted through the rubble, trying to make sense of the situation. I pulled out my cell phone and took pictures of both rooms and Rob.
Ian called his district office. He walked toward the front of the building, quietly arguing with someone on the phone.
Cars began to arrive on scene. Ian went out front to direct the emergency personnel back to the correct building. As more people arrived I slipped out the back door to check out the last building. Mag followed, told me this was the potting shed where Glenn cornered her. I thought fleetingly, “Where the hell is Glenn, anyway?”
The door was cracked and I opened it slowly. We peeked around the corner and groped for a light switch. The room illuminated and Mag said. “What’s up with this? Holy shit, Buzz, we’re not in Kansas anymore!”
Gone was the potting shed and in its place was a well appointed stable. Four stalls, rubber floors, cross ties, a tack room, a wash rack, and feed room. It was stocked and looked like it waited for guests.
“Mag, wasn’t this the building we saw Rob leave and lock the last time we were here?”
She ran her hand over a stall door and nodded at me. “Sure was. Why on earth would they turn this into a horse barn when they have no horses? Where’d they get all the hay? They have no fields and someone in town would have mentioned the new barn and stocking it.”
I continued down the aisle “You’re right, unless they brought it in or bought it locally–” I stopped suddenly, a queasy feeling coming over me. Mag must have felt it too, because we looked at each other and began babbling.
“Oh crap.” I said.
Mag looked over the hay. “You don’t think…”
“Mom and Dad?”
“Who else?”
I stood looking inside the stall. “Why didn’t they say something?”
“Dad was too concerned about his stupid truck getting dinged.”
“Mom was too busy making damn brownies for Dead Butts.”
We stopped. A look of horror crossed Mag’s face as we came to the same conclusion. Mag spoke first.
“Aw, shit. Is that how Carole ended up under their house? Do you think she found out about the drug room? I’m thinking she wasn’t at the farm to pick up hay. This is so confusing!”
“I know. This makes no sense. Come on, we have to get back to your house and regroup. Let’s see if we can sneak out of here.” I stopped again. “Oh, damn. What are we going to tell J.J.? Oh, man, I am in deep shit with J.J. I don’t suppose he would overlook a couple of dead bodies and a break-in, would he?”
“Fat chance,” Mag laughed without humor, “I don’t think he likes us that well.”
We found Ian where we left him, on the phone in front of the drug building. We hid out by the door and signaled that he come hither. He held up an index finger, signaling for us to wait. I turned, saw J.J. coming down the aisle like a steam engine, and elbowed Mag in the ribs. We slid out of sight behind the door before he could get hold of us, and ran around the front to grab Ian. We ended up dragging him through the potted plants, out the front gate and across the parking lot. He was still on the phone when we stuffed him into the back seat. I took off over the lawn because the driveway was clogged with vehicles. There was no way in hell I was waiting around for J.J. to realize we had skipped. I appeased my conscience by justifying that he had his plate full enough for now, and he knew where to find us. Oh, man, was there going to be hell to pay for this one!
16
The sun was sliding toward the western horizon when Alejandro found the Gamble Appaloosa Horse Farm. It looked to him as if someone had taken a small ranch and crunched it into a tiny area. The two-story house sat near the road, off to the left. What would have been the back yard and pastures were fenced enclosures looking more like dog runs than turn-out yards. A large parking area began about thirty feet east of the house where six or seven horse trailers were parked. Two large barns were situated end-to-end, each had to measure well over 100 feet in length. The back barn had an extension off to the side, which Alejandro figured was an indoor arena for winter riding. Other outbuildings lay to the east of the barns, with a gravel road cutting down the middle.
A thin, wiry man with black hair and a pocked face met Alejandro in the front parking area. He ignored Alejandro’s greeting, acting as if he did not even hear him.
“So much for Midwestern hospitality,” Alejandro sighed.
The little man silently directed Alejandro toward the road running down the east side of the barn. Alejandro drove until he found a gap between the barns where he was halted by another man.
Several stern-faced cowboys stood waiting. Alejandro raised a hand in greeting and only one responded with a curt nod. There was none of the joking, convivial atmosphere Alejandro was used to seeing when in the company of cowboys. The entire operation here made him nervous.
He wondered, momentarily, if he should just turn around and leave. He turned off the engine, but before he could exit the truck, they had the trailer doors open and were unloading the mares. No one spoke to him as they led the mares into the second barn. A lanky older cowboy came back out of the barn and told Alejandro he was to collect the papers for the mares.
“Sure,” Alejandro said as he reached into the glove compartment for the sealed envelope he had been given in Mexico.
Thinking it was weird that no one asked where Dr. Huerta was, Alejandro closed up the empty trailer. He turned to ask one of the cowboys a question and found himself alone. He poked his head inside the back barn and noticed his four mares were still tied in the aisle. All the farm hands were gone. He thought how odd it was that after the long ride in the trailer the horses would be standing in an aisle rather than bedded down in stalls.
He stood alone next to his truck, hands on hips. He thought about the atypical behavior of the employees. The breeder had not come out to greet him. No one offered to show him around, something that happened on every horse farm no matter where you went. The older cowboy never opened the envelope to check the papers against the proper mare. The horses were still tied in the aisle. Were they staying or going? The peculiar goings-on since he arrived were sparking Alejandro’s T.V. detective alter ego’s imagination.
Alejandro drove around to the front parking area and backed the truck and trailer among the several other rigs in front of the barns. He needed to find a bathroom and get directions to White Bass Lake, in that order. He looked around inside the front barn for an office or a restroom. A burly looking fellow in a flannel shirt stepped in front of him and said, “Hey, Mex. You got no business here. Get the hell out.”
Startled again at the harsh treatment, Alejandro stood staring at the man.
“I was looking for a restroom, sir. I just brought in those four…”
“They ain’t your concern no more, Paco, and I don’t give a shit if you piss yourself. Get out before I throw you out!”
Alejandro backed away from the man. He was about to turn when a commotion toward the back barn made both of them look. Alejandro caught a glimpse of one of his mares fighting against her halter, refusing to be loaded onto another trailer.
He turned around and headed out the front door before the rude man noticed that Alejandro saw the mare. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man hurry toward the other barn. Alejandro ducked behind the barn door and watched as all four mares were loaded into the trailer. He sagged against the barn door and scratched his head.
“Where the heck are they going now?” he murmured. “If the mares are here for breeding, why are they leaving?” He headed for his truck, thought about the rude man and froze. “What if they are horse thieves? People still steal horses in Mexico, why not here too?”
He fumbled for his cell phone while starting the engine of the truck. His decision made, Alejandro the detective pulled out behind the other horse trailer and followed while he dialed Eduardo Martinez’s cell phone. He got the voice mail and snapped the phone shut. The other rig turned right a
nd headed north on Route 45. Alejandro waited for a few vehicles to fall in behind the other trailer and then pulled out and followed. Wondering what the heck he was doing, he grabbed a pen and wrote that he turned right so he would remember how to get back.
He tried to remember landmarks and street signs, but it was dusk and the traffic was heavy. When he saw the ‘Welcome to Wisconsin’ sign, he started to worry. A couple of miles down the road, the rig in front turned left. Alejandro followed.
He couldn’t believe his eyes when he passed a sign that said ‘White Bass Lake–4 miles’. He backed off the rig in front, as the traffic had thinned.
The darkness was now on his side, but he wanted to be safe. He figured he could double back to White Bass Lake and find somewhere to stay the night if they didn’t go too far.
About a mile out of town the rig in front signaled and turned. When Alejandro caught up, he realized they had pulled into a driveway. He looked up at the sign illuminated in his headlights and his heart froze in his chest. Could ‘Graff’s Garden Center’ be a coincidence with the ‘Carole Graff’ addressed envelope? He did not think so. He drove couple hundred yards further down and pulled off the side of the road onto the wide shoulder.
He killed the engine and let out a deep breath. Was he up for this? He thought about Princesa and the detective in him said, “Absolutely!”
Alejandro exited the truck quietly and hiked back to the entrance to the garden center. He made his way down the side of the driveway, careful to keep off to the side so his feet did not crunch in the gravel. Nearing the main building, he saw the trailer enter through a gate to the right. They left the gate open and Alejandro slipped through. He hid among the plant displays and watched the truck pull around the end of the last building.
A thrill of anticipation shimmied up his spine. I knew I would make a good T.V. detective.
He crept stealthily around the opposite side of the building, hesitating when he heard the noise of the horses being unloaded. Crawling on hands and knees to the end of the building, he watched two cowboys finish unloading his mares. He took a couple of steps back and looked through a window. Crouching down, he thought, “Now what?” He heard one of the cowboys speak.
“That’s it, Jack. Now we wait.”
Wait for whom or what, Alejandro wondered. Not wanting to give himself away, he sat with his back against the building and settled in. The long hours in the truck finally began taking their toll, and he felt himself drifting off. His last conscious thought was, “Television detectives are right about one thing, stakeouts really suck.”
* * *
Jarred awake by the sound of an approaching vehicle, Alejandro quickly lay flat just before the headlights swept over his hiding place. Oh God. More people. What if they saw my rig? The vehicle parked at the back of the building along side the others. He heard doors slam and the crunch of gravel as several people walked to the barn. He stood, and again peeked through the window. What he saw made his blood turn cold.
“Huerta and Martinez,” he breathed. He could not believe it. Huerta was not dead–hell, he wasn’t even missing! Alejandro pulled back from the window and ran a hand through his hair. He rubbed the sleep from his face and peered through the window again. His head was whirling with a thousand questions. He waited until he heard more conversation and risked another look. Sure enough, Huerta was there, opening up one of those doctor bags. Eduardo Martinez looked on as Huerta pulled out what appeared to be a plastic bag. Alejandro realized it was a birthing glove, like the one he found in the medical bag. Huerta slid the glove over his arm and up to his armpit. The elastic at the top held it in place.
The rude man in the flannel shirt from the Gamble farm led one of the mares out to the cross ties. She stumbled and Alejandro noticed her lower lip hung down and her eyes were almost closed. Sedated. Why is she doped up?
Flannel Shirt hooked her in the cross ties and Huerta moved around to her rear end. Flannel Shirt lifted her tail and Huerta reached into her vagina. Alejandro looked on in horror. The mare moaned as Huerta’s arm disappeared inside.
Alejandro’s revulsion increased as Huerta’s arm slowly emerged holding what appeared to be a large brick. He handed the brick off to another man and repeated the process. Alejandro could stand no more and took off at a run toward the next barn. He threw up in the grass next to the building, and slumped to the ground, tears forming in his eyes.
He heard the rattle of wood and metal as someone opened the door to the horse barn. Alejandro ran around the end of the building and yanked on the door handle. It gave and Alejandro slipped in, leaving the door cracked open. The tiny beam of light was enough to make out shapes in the darkness. Alejandro wove his way around tables and came to a plastic wall.
The acrid smell of the place burned his nostrils. He was about to feel his way around it when he heard noises outside the building. He quickly hit the floor and felt his way under a table. The lights flickered on. Alejandro held his breath.
“See, Carl? I told you no one was out here. Geez, you’re paranoid.”
“I swear I heard something, Jack, and you saw for yourself that the door was open.”
“Anybody coulda left that door cracked. Ain’t nobody here, Carl. Come on, we gotta go get the load and check it.”
Almost hysterical, Alejandro tried to slow his breathing and think. He looked for somewhere to hide. He saw a shelf under a table behind a huge barn fan, and crawled, combat style, across the floor to get there. Once he crammed his body into the tiny space, he remembered he never did find a bathroom.
“Don’t think about it,” he told himself, so of course it was all he could think about. Just about the time he was near to bursting, the door creaked open.
The two villains came back in, carrying two bricks a piece. They dropped them on a table opposite to where Alejandro lay hidden.
Just my luck. On television the crooks never have their backs to the detective. He heard tearing and saw movement of the two cowboys. He spotted a hand shaking back and forth, and the truth hit him like a two-by-four across the head.
Drugs! I know it is drugs, because I saw something like this on CSI! The reality staggered him. They were smuggling drugs inside the mares from Mexico to the Midwest! He felt the bile rising in his throat. Oh God, he had to get out of here. Now. He was going to choke. If they caught him he was dead. He might be dead anyway if they saw his truck. Breathe! In and out. Slow down, in and out. Don’t panic. And don’t pee. For God’s sake, don’t pee!
He jerked his attention back to the drug men. One of the two men chose that moment to hurry out the door. The man called Jack went to the door. Alejandro heard, “Carl! Carl, you forgot the other brick…Carl!”
Hoping Jack followed Carl out the door Alejandro rolled off the shelf and crawled toward a plastic curtain. As quietly as he could, he lifted it so he could slither underneath. Breathing hard, he scrambled against the wall, clutching his knees.
Alejandro, shaking and sweating, crawled on all fours toward the end of the aisle.
He made it to the door and checked over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. He reached for the handle and pulled. The clank of the metal latch echoed through the building. Alejandro automatically froze. He heard talking from the other end of the building and took the opportunity to slip through the door under cover of the noise. He quietly closed it and scrambled around the corner of the building. He stood and inched his way back to the corner. Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he checked left and right looking for danger. Seeing none, he ran, hunched over, darting from display to display until he was near the front gate.
Shit! He spotted a man leaning on a gate post.
He crouched down, trying to think of a way out. He was stuck. He scooted back and hid among the pots of bushes near the main building. Alejandro waited. Nothing happened.
The man at the gate chain-smoked and occasionally spoke into a walkie-talkie. He stubbed out a cigarette and suddenly headed in Alejandro’s direction.
Alejandro panicked and began hyperventilating. He was about to bolt, but calmed himself in time. He made himself as small as possible and listened for the man’s footsteps. The sound of the man’s feet came nearer. Alejandro began to pray. The man walked within a couple of feet of where Alejandro lay in a ball. Alejandro watched the man stop next to the building and begin to urinate.
“This might be your only chance, Montoya,” he muttered. He took a deep breath, half stood, and picked his way out of the bushes, his eyes never leaving the guy by the building. He took a deep breath and held it. He tip-toed past the gate post, took off at a dead run toward the main road. His legs pistoned beneath him as he flew toward his truck. He thought he heard someone yell “Hey you!” in the distance, but it could have been his imagination.
“Don’t look back, just run for the truck,” he chanted over and over, speeding down the drive. He tore around the corner post and sprinted toward the truck. He could barely breathe by the time he got to it.
He jumped in the truck turned the key in frantic haste, and the engine roared to life. He slammed the truck into drive. Sod flew out from behind the dual wheels as he tromped on the accelerator. He had no idea where he was going, nor did he care.
His only thought was to get far, far away. He stopped only to relieve himself (finally!) as he zigzagged cross country. He came across a sign that said Interstate 43–Milwaukee/Beloit. He chose to go north.
“Milwaukee it is. I could use a beer anyway,” he said to the truck. Nearing the city, he saw signs for the airport and had another idea. He took 894 East and found Mitchell Field. He pulled into long term parking and disconnected the horse trailer. He drove back out the exit and got back on the expressway south. He picked up a map at a gas station and found White Bass Lake. Sitting in the truck, munching on a breakfast burrito, he mapped out the best way back.
