The Ed Eagle Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Eagle said. “Well, thanks for letting me know, Betty, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I think the guy was right; you’d better watch your ass.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  The phone rang, and Eagle spoke to another client. He forgot about the earlier message.

  WHEN THEY REACHED the snack-bar deck of the ferry, Cupie put his hand on Vittorio’s arm before he could continue up the stairs. “Wait a minute,” he said.

  “What’s up, Cupie?”

  “There’s something wrong about this kidnapping thing and the interest of the Mexican police in our Barbara.”

  “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “I mean, these kidnapping rings down here have got this down to a science: they pick on business executives whose companies have big insurance policies covering kidnapping. They snatch a CEO, or somebody like that, then they do a deal for five or ten million dollars. The insurance company pays, the businessman gets sent home, maybe minus an ear, and everybody but the insurance company is happy.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard about that. What’s your point?”

  “My point is, they wouldn’t be chasing Barbara around for the three hundred grand in traveler’s checks in her handbag. That’s small potatoes to these people.”

  “It doesn’t sound like small potatoes to me,” Vittorio said.

  “Not only is it small potatoes, but it’s one hell of a lot of trouble for them, too. They’ve lost one man and had another shot.”

  “That means nothing to these people. To them, life is cheap.”

  “And we messed up their Suburban pretty good, too.”

  “Well, maybe we pissed them off enough that they would keep looking for her.”

  Cupie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’s something else.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. I just think there’s another reason for all this, and I wish I knew what it was.”

  “Cupie, my friend, you’re getting paranoid. Relax. We’ll be in Tijuana by lunchtime tomorrow, and we’ll be rid of Mrs. Eagle.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Cupie said doubtfully.

  “I am,” Vittorio replied.

  Cupie watched him climb the stairs to the upper deck. “Something’s wrong,” he said aloud to himself.

  Thirty-three

  JOE BIG BEAR GOT OUT HIS DOUBLE-BARRELED SHOTGUN from the storage compartment under the living room sofa of his trailer and wiped it with an oily rag. He took it out to his pickup, rummaged in the aluminum tool chest bolted to the truck bed and came up with a good-size vise. He clamped the vise to the tailgate, got a battery-operated radial saw out of the toolbox, changed the blade and began working on the shotgun’s barrels. Thirty minutes and two blades later, he had a sawed-off shotgun. He used the saw to take off most of the wooden stock, too, leaving only enough for a hand to grip. Finally, he filed the rims of the barrels to remove any burrs. The whole thing was only about two feet long. He loaded the weapon with double-ought buckshot and put it under the seat of the pickup. He was armed.

  BARBARA CHECKED HER WATCH: they had been underway for forty minutes, which meant they were pretty much in the middle of the Gulf of California. Now to see if her luck was holding.

  She got out of the car and looked around; she was alone in the garage. She found the stairs and walked up two decks to the top of the little ship. She looked both ways from the door and saw no one, so she stepped out onto the deck. The wind from the ship’s passage blew her hair around her face, and she brushed it aside as she walked aft. Vittorio was standing, his back to her, his hands on the rail, looking aft at the boiling wake. No one else was in sight. Perfect.

  She walked toward him, careful to keep her steps light. Then, when she had only six feet to go, he glanced over his shoulder and turned around, smiling. He leaned against the rail and opened his arms. “Come here,” he said.

  She couldn’t fight him face to face, she knew that; she’d have to think of something else. She moved into his arms, and the bulge at his crotch gave her the answer. She kissed him, grinding her body into his, and the bulge grew. The railing cut across his ass.

  “I know what you want,” she said, reaching down and unzipping his fly.

  “Well, we are all alone up here, after all,” he replied.

  She knelt, unbuckled his belt, pushed down his pants and took him into her mouth, getting a noisy response from him. He ran his fingers through her hair, took hold and pulled her to him.

  Shit, she thought. She pulled back and took him out of her mouth. “If you want me to keep doing this, don’t mess up my hair,” she said.

  He took his hands away and gripped the railing on either side of him. “Any way you want it, baby,” he said.

  She continued her work, massaging his balls with one hand, and suddenly, convulsively, he began to come. She reached down, hooked her fingers under the bottoms of his jeans and heaved quickly upward.

  “Hey!” he yelled, grabbing at the railing, but it was too late. He flew backward over the side and disappeared into the frothy wake.

  She watched for a minute, but he didn’t come up again. All that was left was his hat, floating upside down on the water. If they ever found him, an autopsy would show no violence, just drowning. She wiped her mouth with a tissue, threw it overboard and walked back toward the stairs. In a moment, she was back in the rear seat of the car, dozing off, satisfied. She didn’t wake up until she heard the car door open.

  “Barbara?” Cupie said.

  She raised her head and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Huh?” She didn’t have to act to look sleepy.

  “Have you seen Vittorio? We’re coming into La Paz, and I can’t find him.”

  “No,” she replied, “I’ve been asleep.”

  “I’ll go look again.” He closed the car door and left.

  Now, she thought, there’s only Cupie to deal with.

  Thirty-four

  CUPIE RAN UP THE STAIRS TO THE TOP DECK AND CHECKED one more time. He could feel the ferry slowing as it came into the dock. He looked around and saw another door, and he ran through that and climbed another short flight of stairs to the bridge.

  The door stood open, and he could see a uniformed officer at the helm, working the throttles to ease the ferry into its berth. When the man rang the telegraph for all stop, Cupie stepped onto the bridge.

  “Capitán?” he asked.

  The man turned. “Sí. How can I help you, señor? Passengers are not allowed on the bridge.”

  “There is a passenger missing,” Cupie said. “Please do not allow anyone off the ferry until we have found him.”

  The captain looked alarmed. “Who is this person?”

  “He is a business associate of mine, and his name is Vittorio, no last name.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s about six feet tall, a hundred and seventy pounds, and he’s dressed in black, with a black, flat-brimmed hat.”

  “I have seen this person on the upper deck after we left Mazatlán,” the captain said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. After we sailed, I went to the snack bar and had some lunch, then read a newspaper. When we were approaching La Paz, I went to the upper deck to find him, but he wasn’t there. I went down to my car, and he wasn’t there, either. I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find him.”

  The captain picked up a microphone and made an announcement of a delay in disembarkation, then he led Cupie below and to the bow of the ship. He ordered one man to take two others and search the ship from stem to stern and another to watch the gangplank where foot traffic disembarked for anyone fitting Vittorio’s description, then he and Cupie looked in each car and its trunk as it left the ferry, finding nothing.

  “Señor,” the captain said. “You are absolutely certain he was aboard?”

  “I am absolutely certain; I came aboard in his company. You must call the coast guard and ask for a
search of our route across the gulf. He can only have gone overboard.”

  The captain nodded, produced a cell phone and made a call, speaking in rapid Spanish. He closed the phone. “It will be done immediately, señor,” he said. “A boat will leave from Mazatlán and another from La Paz, and they will meet in the middle of the gulf, then make the return trip. The tide is slack, so if your friend fell overboard, he will not have drifted far. Can he swim?”

  “I don’t know,” Cupie said. He remembered seeing Vittorio coming out of the sea with Barbara, but he had not seen him actually swimming.

  “Señor, you must remove your car from the ferry, as we have to reload and return to Mazatlán. We will keep an eye out for your friend as we cross, so there will be three vessels looking for him. I suggest you inquire at the coast guard office at the head of the pier about the search.”

  Cupie suddenly had an awful thought. “My friend had the key to the car,” he said.

  “Then we must push it ashore,” the captain replied.

  Cupie went back to the car and rousted Barbara, told her what had happened. “You and Vittorio went swimming together, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, back at the casita.”

  “Could he swim?”

  “I don’t know; we didn’t go in very deep. He didn’t seem to be afraid of the water.”

  “We’re going to be delayed, now,” Cupie said. “I’ve got to contact the car rental company and get either a new key or a new car, and we have to wait and find out about the results of the search.”

  “Of course, whatever’s necessary. Do you really think he fell overboard?”

  “He’s not on the ship; there’s only one other place he can be, and it’s being searched. You steer the car while we push.”

  Barbara got into the front seat, and saw Cupie’s cell phone on the passenger seat. She switched it off and put it into her handbag. No calls to Ed Eagle today.

  CUPIE SAT WITH BARBARA in a restaurant near their hotel, picking at his food. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “Are you sure you didn’t see him again after we got out of the car?”

  “No. I told you, I went to sleep.”

  “And why would he take my cell phone?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe his battery was low, and he wanted to make a call.”

  “I guess that makes sense. I’ve got to call Eagle and tell him what’s happened.” He looked around for a phone.

  “Why don’t you wait until you hear from the coast guard? You don’t even know what to tell him yet.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Listen, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Vittorio and I talked about this today, before he…whatever he did. There’s something wrong about this business with the kidnappers and the policía.”

  “Of course, there’s something wrong,” she said. “They’re trying to kidnap me for my money.”

  “It’s more than that. Three hundred grand isn’t much to these people; they get multimillion-dollar ransoms. There’s got to be some other reason why they’re so interested in you. Tell me what it is.”

  Barbara looked baffled. “I don’t have the faintest idea,” she said. “Why would they want me for any other reason than my money?”

  “You said you’d been to Puerto Vallarta before, right?”

  “Yes, but that was years ago.”

  “This whole business started after we got to Puerto Vallarta. Did anything happen on your last visit that would have interested the police?”

  “No, I came down with a girlfriend for a long weekend, and we liked it, so we stretched it into a week.”

  “What did you do while you were there?”

  “The usual: we lay on the beach, drank margaritas, shopped, like that.”

  “Did you get stopped by the police for any reason? Help me out here, Barbara. Help me to protect you. Why do these people want you?”

  “Cupie, this is crazy; the police here have no interest in me or, at least, not until I wired the three hundred thousand to the local bank. I think you were right: somebody at the bank tipped them off.”

  Cupie sighed. “All right. The car rental company will supply a new key in the morning. We’ll start after we hear from the coast guard, and we should be in Tijuana by nightfall.”

  He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t know what else to do. One thing, though: he was going to watch his back for the rest of this trip.

  Thirty-five

  ED EAGLE WOKE FEELING FRESH AND READY FOR THE new day. He was looking forward to work, something he had not felt since Barbara’s decamping. He showered and shaved, and as he looked in the mirror he thought again about the message from the county jail that Joe Big Bear was going to kill him.

  It didn’t make any more sense this morning than it had the day before. He thought of calling the police or the D.A., but what would he tell them? Joe had not told him the name of the man in jail who had been hired to kill him, and that must have been who made the phone call. And Joe was a free man only because of him, and people tended to be grateful for that kind of help.

  He had breakfast and slipped into his suit jacket, and as he was about to leave he stopped at the front door. Better to be safe. He went back to his dressing room and removed the Terry Tussy custom. 45 from the safe, slipped off his belt and replaced it with the wider, thicker gun belt, then threaded the holster onto the belt. He checked the magazine and made sure there was one in the chamber, then he cocked and locked the pistol and shoved it into the custom-made Mitch Rosen holster, which held the pistol high against his rib cage, making it easier to conceal. He left by the front door, picking up the Santa Fe New Mexican and the New York Times on the doorstep, and got into his car, tossing the papers onto the next seat.

  He drove down the driveway and stopped, looking up and down the road. The pistol was digging into a rib, so he took it out of the holster and placed it on the passenger seat between the two newspapers, so it wouldn’t get the leather seat oily.

  He turned right and started down the mountain, driving in a leisurely fashion, thinking about the day ahead. As he came around a bend he saw a pickup truck pulled over onto the shoulder with the hood up, and he slowed. He’d see if the driver needed help. As he did, a man waving a hand stepped from behind the pickup’s raised hood. The man looked familiar.

  Then, as the man approached, Eagle belatedly recognized him. Joe Big Bear was smiling and waving with his left hand, seemingly relieved to have some help, and his right hand was behind his back. Eagle pressed the button that automatically lowered the passenger-side window, and as he did, something in the back of his mind told him he was making a mistake.

  What came next happened very quickly and yet seemed in slow motion. Big Bear leaned over and put his face in the window, then his right hand came around with something odd-looking in it. A tool, maybe? Not a tool, not the kind needed to repair a broken pickup, anyway. Eagle began to operate on pure instinct.

  As the shotgun came through the window he grabbed at it as the first barrel fired, then he put a hand under the top newspaper, made contact with the pistol and, without pulling it out or aiming it began firing through the door, his hand coming up with each shot, while the shotgun fired again. The noise from the two weapons was incredible.

  Simultaneously, Joe Big Bear’s face winced in surprise, as the shotgun in his hand bucked. Eagle’s last two rounds went through the open window and blew Big Bear backward, as if he had been jerked by a rope, and he disappeared from view.

  Eagle sat, dazed, and tried to figure out what had happened. His windshield had a large hole in it and had crazed, ruining the view forward; there was something warm running down his neck, and he spat something out of his mouth into his hand. It was a single, double-ought buckshot the size of a garden pea and bloody. Eagle turned the rearview mirror so that he could see his reflection. There was a notch in his left earlobe and a black hole in his left cheek, and his face had flecks of black in the skin.
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  He got out of the car, spat blood, and walked around the vehicle, the. 45 still in his hand and held out in front of him. With his left hand he found a handkerchief in his left hip pocket and pressed it to his bleeding ear. His ears were ringing, and the sound of the car door as he closed it seemed to come from far away.

  Joe Big Bear was lying on his back, the shotgun near his right hand and his eyes open and staring blankly at the morning sky. Eagle bent over and felt Big Bear’s neck where a pulse should be and felt nothing. He suddenly felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, and he vomited on the ground next to Big Bear’s body. When he had stopped retching he leaned against the car and took deep breaths.

  He regained his composure after a minute or so and clawed the cell phone from its holster on his belt, speed-dialing the district attorney’s direct line.

  “Martinez,” a voice said.

  “Bob, it’s Ed Eagle,” he managed to say before he had to spit blood again.

  “Morning, Ed. You sound funny. Is anything wrong?”

  “You remember my client, Joe Big Bear?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He just tried to shotgun me on the road, down the hill from my house.”

  “Ed, are you hurt?”

  “Only a little, but Big Bear is dead. I’d appreciate it if you’d call the sheriff for me and get him out here with a crime scene team and two ambulances, one of them for me. I don’t think I can drive.”

  “Ed, you’re not going to bleed to death or anything before anybody can get there, are you?”

  “No, Bob, but please ask them to hurry.”

  “I’ll call you back in a minute. You’re on your cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  Martinez hung up, and Eagle sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged and leaning against his car. His cell phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Bob. They’re on their way, and so am I.” He hung up.

  A SHERIFF’S CAR was there in four minutes, by Eagle’s watch, and two ambulances and Bob Martinez were right behind him. Eagle insisted on walking them through what had happened before he got into the ambulance.

  “You hit him with all four shots,” Martinez said, “from his right knee to his belly to his chest.”