Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  After the deep darkness of the hanger, when he finally wandered outside the world seemed as luminous as a sun-drenched day. He spotted a water spigot at the side of the shed and spent a long time slaking his thirst. Then he looked around, wondering for the first time if there was a dog on the premises. But he heard nothing.

  A single light burned in the house, which looked to be adobe or stucco. Living room, probably. A flicker now and then told him the couple watched TV. Rage flooded him. They were inside, fed and comfortable and watching the tube, while he was cramping and itching and God knew what else. He grasped a rock in his hand to toss through the window before reason returned.

  Orienting himself, he walked toward what he believed to be I-40 to the south of the house. As he neared the edge of the building, he noticed something shiny catching the moonlight. A bicycle.

  Mentally saying thanks to the couple or Coyote or maybe God, he tossed a leg over the contraption and started off down the road. The cycle’s light was so dim he took more than one spill as a wheel dropped into an unseen washout, but the exercise helped keep his other problems at bay. Despite the cool high desert air, he was sweating heavily by the time he reached the overpass to the highway. He stood blankly watching a few cars occasionally pass beneath him before shaking off his lethargy.

  To the left was Albuquerque and Haldemain and his pipes… and BJ, if he could find him. To the right lay Indian country. Another bout of cramps left him weak and exhausted. Semirecovered, he wheeled the bike down the ramp and set off to the east… toward Albuquerque.

  Traffic was light. Even so, he tried to keep to the shoulder but still got a couple of honks. Before long he was leaking sweat like his essence was flowing out of him. His thirst built even as his strength ebbed. It became harder and harder to push the pedals and keep the front wheel pointed where he wanted to go.

  He was on his last legs when he spotted a single pair of headlamps—weaker than most of the others—crest the hill on the opposite side of the freeway. Entranced, he watched the tiny lights grow bigger as they neared. They seemed important for some reason. His heart stuttered in his chest. Silver Wings? Had the man figured out he was alive and was coming for him? Maybe it was a mistake to piss all over his airplane and steal the bicycle. As Jazz stared at the steadily approaching lights, he knew one thing. They were important to him.

  Suddenly aware he strayed to the left, he jerked the wheel and tried to return to the shoulder of the road. The headlamps had almost reached a spot opposite him when a deep-throated air horn blast from behind shook him so badly he lost the pedals. A huge eighteen-wheeler roared by, the wash of its passing first drawing him back to the center line and then shoving him toward the shoulder so violently he lost his balance and pitched off the bicycle and crashed headlong into the ditch. Everything went black.

  “HE DEAD?”

  The voice coming out of the darkness partially revived him.

  “Help me get him up.”

  “Maybe something’s broke. Maybe we oughta leave him where he is.”

  “Can’t do that. He’s all bummed up. He’s bleeding from the head pretty good. Gimme your shirt.”

  “Use his. He won’t know the difference.”

  He wanted to open his eyes and see who was hassling him, but he just couldn’t manage it, no matter how he tried. He hurt. His belly clawed at him and his throat went dry and his head thundered. Cold air puckered his chest as his shirt was ripped away. Why didn’t they leave him alone?

  “Come on, Klah, I ain’t gonna be able to handle him by myself.”

  “I swear, Uncle Gad. Aunt Dibe’s right. You’d be rich if you quit taking in strays.”

  “Shut up and help me.”

  “You take him home, she’s gonna give you the rough edge of her tongue.”

  “Had it a time or two in my day. Come on, boy.”

  Jazz felt himself lifted in the arms of angels… if angels swore in two different languages. Strange. Two languages. And he understood both. Maybe he was an angel too. He wished they’d speak another tongue to see if he understood that one as well.

  When they tossed him into something… probably the bed of a truck… he knew he was no angel. He hurt too much.

  “Ride in the back with him,” the older, deeper voice said.

  “No way. He’s not gonna bounce out. I’m riding up front.”

  Jazz drifted off as soon as the truck pulled onto the highway but came awake again as the vehicle veered and climbed a ramp. They stopped before turning right. Shortly thereafter, the road grew so rough he came awake amid a shower of aches and pains. But he still didn’t manage to open his eyes.

  He had no idea how long they traveled, but eventually the truck slowed, turned, and came to a halt. Doors banged. Then a woman’s voice.

  “Thought you’d be back earlier’n this.”

  “Woulda,” the younger male said. “But we stopped at an accident.”

  Silence, and then the woman spoke sharply. From right beside the truck bed.

  “Lordy, Gad, what you done now? Looks like this fella needs to be in a hospital, not at our place.”

  “Our place was closer.”

  “You oughta seen it, Aunt Dibe. We saw this feeble little light way down the other side of the highway and wondered what it was.”

  “Klah thought it was Coyote with his tail on fire.”

  “Did not. Just said it looked like a prank he might pull. Anyway, when we got close enough, we saw this guy on a bicycle.”

  “On the freeway?” the woman asked. “Lucky the state patrol didn’t pick him up. You can’t ride a bicycle on a interstate.”

  “Mighta been luckier for him if they had. A big semi came up behind this jasper, and the wash tumbled him down in a ditch. He was zonked and bleeding by the time we got to him.”

  “Bet that trucker didn’t even stop.”

  “Probably didn’t even know what happened,” the older man said. “This one’s been out of it ever since.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t have no ID on him. Didn’t have nothing on him.”

  “Jazz!” He couldn’t believe he spoke until he heard the group gathered around him give a collective gasp.

  “Jazz?” the younger voice asked. “That’s not a name, that’s a beat.”

  “Jazz,” he repeated, sounding like a croaking frog.

  “Jazz what?” the woman asked.

  His eyes flew open. He didn’t know. His mind groped for an answer. “What you said earlier.”

  “What did I say earlier?”

  “Jasper. You said Jasper. That’s my other name.”

  “Jazz Jasper?”

  He frowned into a nut-brown face creased with a few well-earned wrinkles. Her gray hair still held touches of black in it. Jazz Jasper. That didn’t sound quite right. But it would do for now.

  Suddenly he retched and his legs jerked up to his chest. He rolled over on his side and shook, biting his tongue to keep from screaming aloud.

  “He’s on something,” the woman said. “Them’s withdrawal pains if I ever seen them. What you got us into now, Gad Hatahle?”

  Chapter 21

  PAUL ROUSED me from a restless sleep by pulling me to him. I sighed in the comfort of his warm embrace.

  “You were moaning and tossing,” he said.

  “Sorry, I’ll go to the couch.”

  “I like it this way. It’s nice having the house to ourselves again.”

  Henry had reluctantly returned home yesterday, saying he had to report for work Monday morning—this morning—or else lose his job at the coal mine.

  “You’re worried about Jazz?” Paul asked, apparently referring to my thrashing about in my sleep. “I have to admit I get jealous about you obsessing over such a handsome hunk. You’re tempted by him, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t be honest if I denied it,” I admitted. “But don’t worry. I belong to you.”

  “I know that. Just like I belong to you. Still, that green-e
yed monster shows up now and then.”

  “Yet you went out of your way to help find him. Put yourself at risk, even. Why?”

  Paul sighed and settled his long body against me before answering. “Three reasons. Jazz is a good guy and doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. He deserves my help. And second, I did it for you. To help you.”

  “And third?”

  “It’s my job as an investigative journalist.” He clutched me to him involuntarily. “Hey, that sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? Investigative journalist.”

  “And you are one. How many freelance articles have you sold so far?”

  “Half a dozen. Thinking about doing a write-up on that underwear bomber that tried to blow up an airplane last Christmas. You know, about radical fundamentalists and all.” He squirmed to get comfortable against me. “Not exactly making expenses yet, but it’s a start. Someday I’ll be able to quit my job at the country club.”

  “Disappointing all the girls and half the guys at the pool,” I said.

  But he wasn’t willing to turn frolicsome. “He’s in real danger, isn’t he? Jazz, I mean.”

  “To be honest, I’m afraid he’s already out of the country or dead.”

  His involuntary shiver shook my body. “I hope not.”

  I fought a catch in my throat. “Paul, make love to me.”

  As dawn’s blossoming light filtered through the drapes, I watched Pedro the Dragon dance and prowl as our passions built. Gradually my world shrank to the beautiful man above me.

  I WAITED until nine that morning before parking in the lot of 10002 Montgomery Street NE in front of a one-story white slump block edifice proclaiming itself to be the Northeast Heights Office Building. The sign outside held half a dozen names, presumably of those renting offices. Desert Enterprises, Inc. was listed as Suite 103.

  A plump fellow about my age sat at a desk behind a counter to the left as I entered. I automatically scanned his brown hair for a bleached spot, but this guy—Wayne according to his name tag—didn’t wear the brand. According to him, no one from Desert Enterprises was in. He offered to take a message.

  “Perhaps you can tell me a little about them,” I suggested. “What exactly do they do?”

  “Have no idea, sir. I just take their phone messages and let them know when someone is at the front desk asking for them.”

  “And what is their phone number? I wasn’t able to find it in the yellow pages.”

  He handled that one easily enough, and I entered the number into my phone. “Thank you, and who generally staffs the office?”

  “They don’t show up very often, but then they do, it’s usually Mr. Nava.”

  Wayne gave me a description of a small, dark man with wavy black hair, but he was beginning to grow wary at my line of inquiry. He clammed up completely after learning I was a confidential investigator.

  Lt. Gene Enriquez can be an intimidating fellow when he wants to be, and Wayne wasn’t built to withstand the likes of him. After I called my former riding partner to the premises, he talked his way into the Desert Enterprises office without a search warrant or any legal right to do so. But the cake wasn’t worth the candle. The office was one big room with two empty desks. There was no sign of occupancy since the furniture likely belonged to the building, not the company.

  As Gene and I stood in the middle of the empty room, he threw me a glance. “It’s nothing but a mailing address. You think there’s any chance this Mr. Nava’s gonna show up again?”

  “Not after Brookings Ingles warns him off,” I said.

  “You think this has anything to do with the White Streak family?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? It might be some shady deal Brookie had going that just showed up on our radar. At any rate, it’s shut down. You think it’s worth getting the crime scene boys out to take a look?”

  “Naw. It’s wiped clean. Besides, I got no probable cause for anything like that. But let’s see if we can get a telephone log out of the guy up front.”

  Wayne readily produced a log and a lease when prompted. There were few calls on the log, and they appeared to be from only three numbers. One I recognized as Brookings Ingles’ office. The other two were probably the other two incorporators’ numbers. Gene would run them to ground.

  We learned little from the lease that we did not already know. Brookings Ingles had executed on behalf of the corporation as its attorney. The corporation was described as providing professional business services, which explained nothing. Interestingly enough, the company prepaid a year’s lease up front. A photocopy of the cashier’s check was stapled to the lease.

  “Drawn on a local bank,” Gene noted. “But I’ll bet you a beer it’s paid by funds wired to Ingles’ account. But I’ll follow up anyway.”

  As we walked out into the parking lot, my cell phone rang. It was Det. Lonzo Joe.

  “BJ, you’ve got a lead on Jazz?”

  I tapped Gene on the arm and halted beside my Impala. “We had a confirmed sighting last Friday but nothing since then. Frankly, I’m worried that the pimps have been alerted about that. Why do you ask?”

  “Somebody from APD pulled his prints from our system.”

  “Why would they come to you instead of going to AFIS?” I asked, referring to the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

  “We don’t register our juvie prints there. Neither does Farmington PD. And Jazz was a juvenile the last time we took his prints.”

  “So who asked for the prints from here?”

  “A Vice detective by the name of Charles Zimmerman, but you didn’t hear it from me. If you check with him, cover my ass, okay?”

  I closed the call and leaned against the fender of Gene’s nondescript brown Ford sedan and pursed my lips.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That was Lonzo Joe.”

  “The San Juan County detective who tipped us on Nesposito?”

  I nodded. “That Vice detective who picked up Henry just checked San Juan County for Jazz’s fingerprints.” I headed off his obvious question. “They don’t register juvies with AFIS.”

  “Charles Zimmerman?”

  I nodded. “Let’s call him. He had a reason for asking. Maybe Jazz showed up again.”

  Gene hesitated, raising my antenna. “Naw. Rather talk to him in person. Vice is… well, sort of another world. It’s like they don’t know the rest of us even exist. Probably have to go to his supervisor.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Vice reports to Bolton.”

  “The Lieutenant Bolton who’s a director of CAHT?” I asked.

  “The same.”

  “Maybe the council asked them to check.”

  “Then why would Zimmerman do it?” Gene asked.

  “Delegation,” I suggested.

  “Okay, but why would the council be checking?”

  “Maybe Betsy found something after our talk with her.”

  “We don’t need a face-to-face meeting with her,” he said, reaching for his phone.

  Betsy had no news of Jazz and had not asked that his fingerprints be pulled. She volunteered to ask around to see if someone else in the organization did so, but Gene hastily asked her to simply drop the matter and closed the call.

  That left Zimmerman… and his boss, Bolton. I agreed with Gene’s careful approach but likely for different reasons. His had to do with APD politics and procedures; mine were motivated by the fact Bolton was a board member of CAHT, which was rapidly moving up on my list of possible leakers to Silver Wings.

  “Bolton can be an ass sometimes, but he’s still a cop,” Gene said after I voiced my feelings.”

  “Isn’t he married?”

  Gene hesitated. “Why would you ask me that? Oh, I see. Jazz is gay. Yeah, he’s married, but the word is Bolton’s eyes wander.”

  “To the other side of the aisle?” I asked.

  “Surprise the hell out of me if he did, but who knows?”

  “What about Zimmerman?”


  “Don’t know much about him but don’t like what I do. He’s been in Vice for a few years. Used to be undercover, but not now.” Gene shook his head. “In my opinion, you don’t leave a guy in Vice for long. Zimmerman’s as macho as they come but don’t think he’s married. If I recall correctly, he has a sexual harassment complaint or two. By women,” he supplied before I asked.

  I ran a hand over my face. “In my experience, sex is sex for some guys. Doesn’t matter much who with. Especially the aggressive types.”

  “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t want to call Zimmerman gay to his face.”

  “You’re making my case. A riverboat shall be my horse.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s something my mother used to say when she meant there were alternative explanations for something. Or as I like to say, those who harbor self-doubts rale loudest against what they fear in themselves.”

  “When did you get to be a philosopher? Come on, let’s get moving.”

  “Zimmerman or Bolton?”

  “Zimmerman first… if we can find him.”

  We did. He was getting in his car, another anonymous Ford like Gene’s, except it was blue. He rolled down the window as Gene hailed him.

  “Zim, I understand you pulled prints from San Juan County on a fellow named Jazz Penrod.”

  “Jasper Penrod, yeah. But he goes by Jazz, I guess. Why?”

  “What was your interest?”

  “His name came up in something I’m working on. Can’t say much about it, but he’s a brother to the guy I picked up at the Blue Spruce. The one you got sprung.”

  “Half brother. What was the info on Penrod?”

  “Just a whisper. Enough to make me want to know more about him. That’s all I can say.”

  “You know we’re looking for him, right?”

  “Yeah. All points. Bet I find him before you do.”

  “If so, you better deliver him in one piece.”

  “Do my best. But if he resists…?”

  Zimmerman backed out of his parking space and pulled away. As we watched him go, I asked a question.