Edge of Dawn

by Melinda Snodgrass

  Kenzo stood and took in the shotgun Richard held in one hand and the stack of ammo boxes in the other. “We must speak.”

  “I don’t have time for you right now.”

  “Why? What are you doing?” The CFO nodded toward the gun. “More to the point, what are you doing that requires weapons?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  The nostrils thinned, and the lips tightened. “Meaning you don’t trust me.”

  “Meaning that it’s not personal. It’s following security protocols. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Richard pushed past Kenzo and went into Joseph’s office.

  Chapter

  NINE

  RICHARD stood on the balcony of his room at the River Front Marriott hotel and looked down at the San Juan River churning below. The white manes of the rapids and the deep blue water set an odd counterpoint to the red rock cliffs that enfolded the river and the town of Farmington. Nervous, he checked his watch. He was due to pick up Mosi in forty minutes. Acid churned in his gut. He wouldn’t wait any longer.

  He tossed a ten on the bed as a tip for the maids and grabbed his case. As he passed Weber’s room, he tapped on the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Weber emerged and fell into step with him. “You’re going to be early.”

  “They can live with it,” Richard replied.

  Out in the parking lot, Weber got on the radio to his team. Richard made his preparations at the SUV, removing the shotgun from its case and stashing it between the front seats. He and Weber exchanged tense nods. Richard started to climb into the car, but Weber caught him around the shoulders and gave him a hard squeeze.

  “Be careful.” The big man abruptly released him and strode off to his pickup. Richard watched him for a long moment, then got in the car.

  A mere twenty-two miles separated Farmington from Shiprock. The bright morning sun splashed on the rocky outcroppings like the spine of a fossilized dragon and pointed up the shabbiness of the human buildings that seemed to huddle precariously in the harshly beautiful landscape. Richard glanced into the rearview mirror. Weber was a few cars back. The small plane whined overhead.

  He made the twisting turns up to the house and climbed out. The aunt opened the door and motioned for him to come in. Today the house smelled of frying onions and macaroni and cheese, a lingering memory of last night’s dinner. Mosi was waiting in the living room, a small pink suitcase placed precisely in front of her feet. Richard picked it up.

  “Is this all you have?” Richard asked. Mosi’s face was tight, closed in, her eyes shadowed by her lowered lashes.

  “What else would she have?” the aunt asked in a pugnacious tone.

  Richard was taken aback. “I just thought there might be toys … or something,” he stammered. Silence met his remark. He cleared his throat. “Well, we better get going.”

  The stony expression faltered, and Mrs. Yazzi gazed desperately down at her niece. “You’re all that’s left of my brother,” she said. “You don’t have to go with this belegana.”

  The little girl answered in Navajo. A spirited discussion broke out in a language he didn’t know. Richard stood by awkwardly. Mosi wrapped her arms around her aunt’s waist and hugged her hard. She knelt and opened up her little suitcase and took out a bracelet and a lovely seed pot. She handed them to her aunt. She then looked up at Richard and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  They headed for the front door. “Mosi! You call. Be good.”

  “Good-bye, ma yaashi,” the little girl said huskily, and followed Richard out to the big Toyota Land Cruiser.

  Richard placed the suitcase in the back and made sure Mosi was belted in. She noticed the shotgun and gave him a quizzical look.

  As he turned the key and the engine began to growl, he asked, “Your aunt doesn’t want you to come with me?”

  “No.”

  “But you do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?

  The girl’s head snapped around, her long black hair swirling like a shadow. “You’ll keep me safe. And if I stay, the devils will come here too. Better they come after you.”

  It struck Richard as funny and he gave a sharp laugh. “You’re probably right. The bracelet and the pot. Why did you give them to your aunt?”

  “She needs them more.”

  “Did your dad make them?” Richard asked as they bumped across the potholes in the road heading for the highway.

  A nod. “He’d make them and sell them in Gallup or to the tourists.”

  “It was good of you to share them with your aunt. Maybe we can find some things your dad made and buy them for you.” He glanced over at her and smiled, but it died at the sight of her brows drawn into a hard frown.

  “Why do you white people think money can fix everything? My daddy is dead. I don’t care about his bracelets. They won’t bring him back.” Beneath the rage, tears lingered like the whispered cry of a wailing violin. Shame at his own glibness and thoughtlessness kept Richard silent for several long minutes. He was not going to buy this child’s trust or affection with calculated kindness and trinkets.

  They made the turn onto Highway 64. Only then did Richard say quietly, “You’re right, Mosi. I apologize.”

  This time it was sincere and she knew it. She gave a curt nod and hunched down deeper in the big bucket seat.

  Richard shifted, reached behind his back, and pulled the hilt out of its holster and put it in the cup holder in easy reach. He slipped on the radio headset and said, “Heading out now.”

  “Copy that,” came Weber’s voice.

  They drove back to Farmington. Near the center of town they reached a large, complex intersection with multiple roads branching off in different directions. The four other identical Land Cruisers waited in various parking lots as Richard and Mosi cruised through. They pulled out, and Richard and the other drivers began an intricate shell game weaving in and out, switching positions. Then they all sped off.

  One headed east and south toward Bloomfield and Albuquerque, another toward Durango, and two cars and Richard headed back toward Shiprock. In Shiprock, one car headed north on Highway 491 toward Cortez, Colorado, and the other headed south on the same highway toward Gallup, New Mexico, and I-40, while Richard headed west into Arizona. The plan was for him to go until Highway 64 met up with Highway 160, then he would double back east and north, enter Colorado, drive past Mesa Verde, through Cortez and Durango, and continue east until they reached Pagosa Springs, where they would finally head south for Santa Fe and Albuquerque. He hoped that by then any pursuers would be completely confused.

  It was going to be a long drive, and it would probably be ten or later before they reached Lumina headquarters. Assuming there were no problems. He glanced over at the profile of the silent child. “I brought some audiobooks, and there’s music too. We can also listen to the radio or play white horse bingo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Every time you see a white horse and call it first, you get a point. Whoever sees more white horses at the end of a trip wins.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That sounds silly. I’ll look at the books.”

  “They’re in the armrest,” Richard said. He had picked a selection, everything from The Wind in the Willows and The Little Princess to Men of Iron and Harry Potter. Mosi studied the covers intently, focusing very closely on E. H. Shepard’s charming illustrations for The Wind in the Willows.

  “Do the animals talk?” Mosi asked.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Then I’d like to listen to this.” He nodded and helped her load the disks into the six-CD changer.

  “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs…” The voice of the male reader filled the car.

  Richard remembered another voice reading those words, a soft, light soprano. He tensed, expecting the memory of his mother to mak
e him sad, but instead he found comfort. He wondered what she would have made of Mosi. He had a feeling she would have liked the girl.

  It was tough trying to listen to the reports from the other drivers with the audiobook playing, but keeping Mosi entertained was also a priority, so he tried to block out the adventures of Mole and Rat and Toad while he listened to the other drivers and the miles unrolled beneath the tires.

  Richard and Mosi were just outside of Mancos, Colorado, when Steve, the driver heading south on Highway 550 toward Cuba, New Mexico, reported there was a jackknifed semi blocking the road. “Looks like a concerned citizen is waving down traffic. Hang on.”

  Richard heard the whir of a window being rolled down, then murmuring voices. Then the whir of a window again and the purr of an engine returning to highway speed. Steve’s voice came back over the headset. “Asking if I was a doctor, but checking out the car pretty thoroughly. Also, he was packing.” Richard released a held breath.

  “They’ve divided their forces,” Weber’s voice came in. “At least that part of the plan is working.”

  “Wonder when it’s our turn?” Richard murmured back.

  Several hours later they reached Durango. Richard’s stomach reminded him that he had skipped breakfast. If his belly felt this empty, he was sure Mosi was hungry too. “How about some lunch?” he asked. She nodded. “What do you like?”

  There was again that nose wrinkle. He was beginning to identify it as an expression of deep thought and consideration. “Taco Bell. I like hamburgers too.” She looked out the car window at the passing buildings, all brick and late-nineteenth-century quaint. Richard sighed and resigned himself to at least seven years of fast food.

  He shifted and pulled out his iPhone. “Here, look up restaurants on this.” She gave him a questioning look. “It’s safe. There are no monsters inside.”

  She took the phone, and he walked her through how to get online. She read off the names of various restaurants and even some reviews. The childish tones were flutelike.

  “Zia Taqueria, good nu … nutritious food,” she read, stumbling a bit over the word. “Best Mex ever. Good, healthy food.”

  “That sounds like the place,” Richard said. “Read off the address for me.” She did and surprised him by going to the map function and giving him very concise directions. “You’re good at that,” he said.

  “I was Daddy’s navigator. That’s what he always said.”

  Richard didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. They found the restaurant and were soon inside placing their orders. Mosi had rolled taquitos. Richard went with fish tacos. Mosi made a face.

  “That’s not real Mexican food,” she said.

  “It is in Mexico, where they have ocean.”

  “There’s no ocean here, so you shouldn’t have fish,” she said.

  Thinking about all the frozen seafood he had eaten since he’d moved to New Mexico, Richard had to concur. “Okay, you got me there.”

  “So why are you going to have them?” she asked.

  “Because it seems … healthier?” His own hesitancy turned it into a question.

  Mosi began wiggling in her chair. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Richard asked. She nodded.

  “Okay.” He stood up.

  “I can go by myself. I’m not a baby.” The childish outrage made him want to chuckle.

  “I know that. I just want to walk you to the door,” he said.

  “You’re scared,” she accused.

  “No, just cautious. Come on.”

  While he loitered in the small hallway, he realized his bladder was full too. From behind the door to the women’s restroom he heard a toilet flush, then the sound of running water. Mosi emerged. She was using her hair as a veil.

  “My turn. Wait for me right here,” he said, and ducked into the men’s room.

  Back in the dining room, Richard took a fast look to see if anyone new had arrived. He spotted Weber already wolfing down a giant burrito. They exchanged almost imperceptible nods. A few minutes later their food arrived. Mosi ate with quick dainty bites, dipping the rolled taquitos first in guacamole, then in salsa, and then nipping off the end with her front teeth. While they were eating, Richard’s earpiece buzzed. It was Hank, the driver heading south toward Gallup.

  “I hit a spike strip. All four tires are flat. I’ve steered onto the shoulder, and there are some Staties approaching. Though I’ll lay money they’re not Staties.”

  Richard left the table and moved away from Mosi. Weber was hearing the same report, and they exchanged a glance. Richard sensed that he looked as grim as Damon. “You’re just an honest businessman driving to Gallup,” he told Hank. “Don’t offer any resistance. Once they realize you don’t have the package … Be careful. Check back as soon as you can.”

  “Will do.” The radio contact went dead.

  Richard returned to the table, but he’d lost his appetite. Mosi finished the last bite of her taquito. “You ready?” Richard asked her.

  She nodded. “But you didn’t finish.”

  “I decided maybe you were right about the fish.”

  She gave him a look from beneath lowering brows. “You look funny.”

  “We’re fine” was his temporizing answer.

  Richard tossed money onto the table. They made another bathroom stop, and then they were back in the car and on the road.

  “Jerry took this opportunity to gas up the plane,” Weber reported over the headset. “He’ll catch up with us.”

  “Okay,” Richard replied.

  Forty minutes later, Hank still hadn’t checked back in. Richard keyed the headset. “Hank? Hank, come in.”

  An unknown female voice came on the radio. It sounded young and unsure. “Uh … who is this?”

  “Identify yourself,” Richard said authoritatively. It didn’t have the desired effect.

  “You first, pendejo!”

  It wasn’t worth lying. Everything was going to lead back to him and to Lumina. “Lieutenant Richard Oort, APD.”

  “Oh … uh … Patrolman Tina Gallegos, State Police.”

  “What’s your situation?” Richard asked.

  “I’ve got a dead guy in an SUV just south of Tohatchi near Navajo Service Road 37. Somebody spiked his car and shot him in the head.” Richard closed his eyes briefly. “Is this guy a cop?” Patrolman Gallegos asked.

  “Not exactly,” Richard said.

  Weber intervened. “Richard, let me handle this from here. Patrolman, I’m Damon Weber, head of security for Lumina Enterprises. Hank Lundkvist worked for me. Whatever we can do to assist in capturing his killers—”

  Richard cut the radio. He didn’t want to hear any more. His palms were slick on the steering wheel. He removed one and then the other to wipe them dry on his trouser leg. It was just a matter of time before their enemies reached the right car.

  * * *

  Grenier, riding the elevator up to the sixth floor, reflected with no small amount of satisfaction on how Kenzo had come striding into his office yesterday afternoon. The executive had demanded without any preamble, “Do you know where Richard has gone?”

  “I thought he was here. He just got back from California—”

  “Yes, and now he’s gone again.” Grenier felt again that flash of irritation that he had once again been shut out. Kenzo wasn’t finished. “This situation cannot continue. I’m setting up a conference call with Gold and Dagmar. I’d like you to be part of it.”

  “I’d be delighted. Does Pamela—”

  “She is not an officer of this company.”

  “I might point out that neither am I.”

  “She is also his sister.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  The elevator arrived, and Grenier went into the conference room. The fountain in the corner chuckled and murmured to itself. Kenzo was seated at the table checking e-mail on his phone while Jorge put the finishing touches on the AV equipment.

  Jorge reacted to Grenier’s entrance. “
Look, Mr. Fujasaki, I’m still not real sure about this. Shouldn’t Pamela be here? And Richard didn’t authorize this.”

  “I did,” Kenzo said. “And as an officer of this company I have that right.”

  “Yeah, well, then why is he here?” Jorge asked with a jerk of the thumb toward Grenier.

  Anger washed through the former televangelist, but he just smiled. “Mr. Fujasaki wanted me to be here.” And you’re so going to get yours, boy.

  Jorge shrugged. “Okay, New York and London are on the line. Just hit Play on your computer, and you’ll all be connected.”

  “Thank you. You may leave,” Kenzo ordered.

  Jorge slouched out in that way of youth that expressed disdain, offense, and indifference. Kenzo keyed the computer, and the big wall screen sprang to life. It divided in half, with Dagmar on one side, and George Gold on the other. Satisfaction flowed warm and sweet through his chest. Savoring the moment, Grenier took his place among the chief financial officer, the chief operating officer, and chief counsel of Lumina Enterprises.

  “Okay, what is this about? And what’s so urgent that you call a meeting when it’s past nine o’clock here?” Dagmar asked. She scanned the table in Albuquerque. “And where’s Richard?”

  “Not here, and no one has any idea what he’s doing,” Kenzo said.

  Grenier decided to cement his position. He murmured, “As is so often the case.”

  “You heard about the events in California?” Kenzo asked.

  “Yes, I was informed,” Dagmar said.

  “What do you think?” Gold pushed.

  Dagmar shrugged. “It’s Richard’s job.”

  “His job is managing Lumina Enterprises,” Kenzo countered.

  “It’s both,” Dagmar shot back.

  “And that is precisely the problem,” Kenzo said. “These events in California have us once more back in the public eye. We have a CEO who swaggers about the world shooting off guns and assaulting people.”