by Stuart Woods
“I wasn’t even aiming,” Eagle said.
AT THE HOSPITAL a young resident did something to his earlobe and stuck a swab into the hole in Eagle’s cheek, then he poured some liquid into a small cup and handed it to Eagle.
“Mr. Eagle, I know this is going to sound like an odd treatment, but I want you to take some of this into your mouth, close your lips tightly and spit it out the hole in your cheek.”
Eagle did as he was told, and a stream of clotted blood and antiseptic shot out the hole. It would have hurt like hell, he thought, but for the local anesthetic the man had injected into his cheek.
Then, in short order, an oral surgeon appeared and stitched up the wound inside Eagle’s mouth, and a plastic surgeon was next, carefully suturing the wound in his cheek with tiny stitches.
“I want you to keep this on your cheek for as long and as often as you can stand it,” the plastic surgeon said, pressing a wrapped ice pack against his face. “It’ll help prevent swelling, and you’ll look more normal.” He put a square of flesh-colored tape on the stitched wound.
When the medics were done, Bob Martinez, who had watched the treatment with interest, drove him home, so that he could change his bloody clothing.
“I had your car flat-bedded to the dealer in Albuquerque,” Martinez said. “The windshield will have to be replaced, and the door fixed, and the interior will need some attention. Do you have a second car?”
“Thanks, Bob, I’ve still got Barbara’s Range Rover.”
“Where’s Barbara?”
“Gone, and for good. There’s something I can tell you, Bob, now that Joe Big Bear is dead.”
“What’s that?”
“My witness at Big Bear’s hearing, Cartwright, was wrong about something. I don’t think it was deliberate, but he said that Joe had been at his house the whole time the car was being repaired. I didn’t remember it until later, but at our first meeting, Joe told me he had had to leave the job to go to Pep Boys on Cerrillos for a fan belt.”
Martinez’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, opportunity,” he said. “That matches up nicely with motive and means.”
“Yes, it does. I think Joe did the three murders.”
“Well, I can clear that case,” Martinez said as he pulled into Eagle’s driveway.
Eagle got out, thanked Martinez again, and went inside. He called Betty and said that he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in that day, then he stripped off his bloody clothes, took another shower and got into bed. He didn’t wake up until Susannah Wilde called in the late afternoon from the Centurion jet to say that she’d be landing in Santa Fe at six o’clock.
Thirty-six
EAGLE MET THE CENTURION GULFSTREAM IV AT THE SANTA Fe Jet Center, feeling like shit, hurting all over as if he had been beaten up. The ice had helped, but his face was still swollen, and his left eye was black.
When the jet taxied up to the ramp, Eagle walked out to meet it as the door opened, and several people came down the airstair. Susannah was first off, followed by a rather handsome, if elderly, man.
“Oh, Ed, what happened to you?” she asked, looking alarmed.
“Just a little accident; nothing to worry about.”
“Ed, let me introduce Rick Barron, the chairman of Centurion Studios.”
“Ed, how are you?” the elderly man asked.
“Very well, Mr. Barron.”
“Please call me Rick.”
“Thank you.”
“Susannah, it looks as though you don’t need a lift into town,” Barron said.
“No, I’m fine, Rick. Thank you so much for the ride; it’s so much easier than flying commercial to Albuquerque and driving from there.”
“Any time. We’re returning Sunday evening, if you need a round trip.”
“No, I’ll be staying to get my new house in order.” She kissed him on the cheek, Eagle took her luggage from a flight attendant and they walked to the Range Rover.
As soon as they were in the car, before he could even start it, she put a hand on his arm. “All right, now tell me what really happened. Did you get into a fight?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Eagle replied. “I want you to understand that incidents like this are not a normal or regular part of my life.”
“Understood. Now what happened?”
“A man, a former client, tried to kill me with a sawed-off shotgun. Fortunately, it didn’t turn out as he had planned.” He explained the circumstances as fully as he could.
“You should be at home in bed,” she said.
“I spent the day in bed, and I’m just fine, thanks.”
“I expect you could use a drink,” she said. “So could I; let’s get going.”
HE PUT HER THINGS in the guest room. “Do you want to change?”
“Nope, I’m okay as I am. Where’s the kitchen?”
“This way.” He led her there and poured them both a Knob Creek on the rocks.
“Now, you sit here,” she said, pushing him onto a barstool. “I’m going to cook dinner.”
“That’s really not…”
“Don’t argue with me,” she said, taking a swig of her drink and opening the refrigerator door. “What have we got here?”
“There are some steaks and salad makings.”
“Got it,” she said, starting the grill on the Viking range. “Dinner in half an hour.”
THE FISHING BOAT MADE IT into Cabo San Lucas well after dark. Vittorio sat on a beer cooler, a dirty blanket around his shoulders, and watched as the boat was eased into her berth, then he pressed five hundred dollars on its captain and jumped onto the dock.
Vittorio could not swim, but he could float. He had floated for the better part of an hour, terrified of growing tired and sinking, before the fishing boat appeared and heard his shouts. They had even rescued his hat, which was floating alongside him.
When he had gone over the side, he had been stunned by his uncontrolled impact with the water and frightened that he was under it for what seemed like minutes. He broke the surface just in time to see her turn away from the rail and walk away. He had been too out of breath even to shout, before the ferry was a hundred yards away. He had taken deep breaths, arched his back and he thanked God that the sea was flat.
He had had time to contemplate the end of his life before it was saved by the fishermen and to plan what he was going to do to Barbara if he ever got his hands on her. Once aboard the boat he’d tried to call Ed Eagle, but his cell phone had been ruined by the salt water.
Now, as he walked into the town, angry and damp, all he wanted was food, tequila and a bed. Then he remembered that he had the key to the Toyota. He found a cab and negotiated a price for the ride to Mazatlán. The cab ride was over an hour, and on arrival he went directly to the ferry terminal. As he had suspected, the Toyota was parked there. He retrieved his luggage from the trunk and found a hotel.
He ordered from room service, then he rinsed the salt water out of his clothes so they would dry properly, flushed out his. 45 Colt as best he could and soaked in a hot tub until the food came. A quarter of a bottle of tequila later, he fell soundly asleep, grateful to be alive.
EAGLE AND SUSANNAH ATE slowly and talked, sipping a good cabernet.
“I feel as though I’m starting a whole new chapter in my life,” she said.
“I’m almost there, myself, and I will be as soon as I can get the divorce out of the way.”
“Is that going to be a problem with her being out of the country?”
“Somewhere else is where I want her to be,” Eagle said. “I’ll have a signed agreement tomorrow morning, when I get to the office for your closing. The rest is just paperwork.”
“My divorce wasn’t so easy,” she said. “He wouldn’t settle, so we had to go to trial. It was all over the papers, and I hated that, but in the end, he had to pay more than I’d asked for, and he had to pay in cash, so at least I’m well fixed.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“The shipping co
mpany says my furniture will be here by noon Monday.”
“Then I’m looking forward to our weekend together.”
“So am I.”
“We’ll do a walk-through with the real estate agent first thing in the morning, then we’ll close at my office. An associate has already prepared all the paperwork. It’s a lot simpler for a cash transaction; fewer documents to sign. The seller won’t be there, but his lawyer already has the signed documents. Did you bring a cashier’s check for the sale price?”
“Yep. I’m ready to close.”
“I wish all my clients were so easy to deal with.”
“Well, I’m not always easy to deal with. I’m an actress, after all.”
“You seem to have a solid sense of yourself, without the usual ego inflation of people in your business.”
“Maybe that’s because I’ve seen so many inflated egos, and I wanted to avoid that. It’s the money, really. So many of those people are being paid so much money that they come to believe that they’re actually worth it. I know an actress who lives in Malibu who has a big piece of property with four houses on it, and she takes turns living in all of them.”
“Maybe there really is such a thing as too much money.”
“Live in L.A. for three months, and you’ll learn how true that is.”
“I think three months might be too much for me. I spent five weeks there once, for a trial. The client put me up at the Bel-Air hotel, and after a while I began to think I was worth it.”
AFTER DINNER, SHE WANTED to go to bed, and so did he. He kissed her good night outside the guest room, then fell into his own bed and quickly fell unconscious.
Thirty-seven
EAGLE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING FEELING NEARLY HUMAN. He showered, shaved and checked the state of his face. There was still the discolored eye, but the swelling in his face had gone down. He put antibiotic cream on his wound and applied a bandage. By the time he was dressed, he could smell bacon cooking.
“Good morning,” she said as he walked into the kitchen.
“You really don’t have to cook all our meals,” he said.
“I’ve got to earn my keep somehow.”
“I guess I’m going to have to take you out this evening to keep you from cooking again.”
“Don’t you like my cooking?”
“It’s wonderful, but I don’t like making you work.”
They sat down and ate a big breakfast, then Eagle got out the Range Rover and drove them through Tesuque and down Tano Road.
“This route isn’t as easy as it used to be,” he said as he first followed a four-lane highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “They closed the entrance to Tano Road in some sort of weird traffic rerouting, so it’ll take you a little longer to get home than it once did.”
“I don’t mind the drive,” she said.
He turned onto Tano Norte. “This road used to be called County Road 85, or something like that, but the writer who built your house and Stanley Marcus, of Neiman’s fame, who lived right there”—he pointed out a house as they passed—“got together and had the name of the road changed and the houses numbered.”
They drove on down Tano Norte until they came to the house, where Susannah’s real estate agent was waiting for them. The walk-through went well, and Susannah made notes for minor repairs and changes she wanted done.
“I’ll recommend somebody to take care of all that,” Eagle said.
The walk-through completed, they drove to Eagle’s office, where his associate had the paperwork arranged on the conference table in his suite. The seller’s lawyer showed up, the papers were signed and money changed hands.
“Congratulations,” Eagle said, “you’re a Santa Fe home owner.”
VITTORIO WOKE UP LATER than he had intended, had some breakfast and got dressed. He could see the Toyota in the ferry parking lot across the street, and he kept an eye on it as he dressed. His intention had been simply to go and get into the car when Cupie and Barbara did, but then he had a strange thought: Could the two of them have been in cahoots? He dismissed the idea as implausible, but he resolved to be more cautious.
He asked the hotel to provide a rental car, to be dropped off in Tijuana, and when Cupie arrived at the Toyota with their bags he was waiting across the street in a red Chevrolet.
CUPIE OPENED THE TRUNK and set his and Barbara’s luggage inside, then he stopped. Vittorio’s luggage had been there; now it was gone. He checked the lock on the Toyota; it was undisturbed; the trunk had not been broken into. He closed the trunk and looked carefully around him. What was going on here? The coast guard had reported not finding Vittorio’s body. This was creepy.
VITTORIO DUCKED AND WAITED for Cupie to drive away, then he followed. Cupie stopped at a side entrance to a hotel, and Barbara ran from the building and dived into the rear seat of the Toyota. Cupie was still being careful. Good.
Vittorio followed at a distance as the Toyota made its way out of town, north toward Tijuana. He wasn’t sure just how he was going to handle this yet, but what he really wanted was to kidnap her himself and sell her to a pimp in Tijuana. Maybe life as a sex slave in a Mexican whorehouse would be good for her.
BOB MARTINEZ SAT IN his car with a detective, across the street from the Santa Fe County Corrections Center, and watched the day’s crop of released inmates leave the building.
“You know any of these guys, Pedro?” he asked the detective. “I’m looking for a man who might do a contract killing.”
Pedro Alvarez watched the men through small binoculars. “I know three of them,” he said. “One is a burglar, one is a car thief and the third is what you might call a jack-of-all-trades.”
“What’s the jack’s name?”
“Harold Fuentes,” Pedro replied, as he watched Fuentes get into a pickup truck with a woman. “He’s your best bet.”
“Then let’s follow him.”
“What do you expect to learn by doing that? I could just brace the guy.”
“We don’t have enough to charge him with anything yet. Let’s just see where he goes and what he does.”
Pedro started the car and followed the pickup at a distance.
“You know where he lives?” Martinez asked.
“Off Agua Fría, in a little adobe,” Pedro replied.
Martinez watched as Fuentes passed Agua Fría without turning. “Harold appears to be going somewhere else,” he said.
Fuentes passed the road to the interstate without turning. “There’s nothing out here but a water-treatment plant and the airport,” Pedro said.
“Let’s see which one he chooses,” Martinez replied.
Fuentes turned left toward the airport.
“You know who lives out here?” Pedro said.
“Yeah, Joe Big Bear, or at least he did before Ed Eagle so kindly blew him away for us.”
Fuentes drove past the big junkyard, then turned into a road alongside it.
“Bingo,” Pedro said.
“Stop here, and let’s see what he does,” Martinez ordered.
Pedro pulled over and looked through his binoculars. “He’s trying to get into Big Bear’s trailer,” he said. “The woman is keeping watch. He’s fiddling with the lock.” He watched as Fuentes gave up on the lock, returned to the pickup for a tire iron, then jimmied the door. The woman followed him inside.
“Now we’ve got a charge,” Martinez said. “Let’s go get him.”
Pedro drove down the road and turned into the trailer’s driveway, then coasted to a stop. “Are you carrying?” he said to the D.A.
“You bet,” Martinez said, producing a Walther. 380. “Let’s go.”
The two men got out of the car and walked to the trailer, its door ajar. They peeked inside and saw Fuentes and the woman ransacking the place.
“Here!” the woman cried, opening the undersink cabinet. “He’s got a safe.”
They watched as Fuentes knelt in front of the safe, took hold of it and tried to lift it. “It’s bolted down,” he s
aid, taking the tire iron to the plywood floor.
Martinez signaled Pedro to wait, and the two men watched through the door until Fuentes had the safe free of the floor. “Now,” he said, stepping back and letting the detective precede him.
Pedro pushed open the door, held out his gun and yelled, “Freeze, police!”
Fuentes was lifting the safe from under the sink, and he dropped it as if it were red hot and turned around. “What?” he said. “What’s going on?”
“You’re under arrest for burglary, both of you,” Pedro said.
“What are you talking about? My wife and me live here.”
“Come on, Harold, this is Joe Big Bear’s trailer.”
“I rented it from him the day before yesterday,” Fuentes protested. “I’ve got the agreement in my truck.”
“You talked to Joe the day before yesterday?”
“Sure, I did. He came to see me in jail.”
“Is that when you hired him to kill Ed Eagle?”
“Now, wait a minute Detective Alvarez,” Harold said. “Maybe I better explain this a little better.”
“Okay, Harold,” Pedro said, producing handcuffs. “Let’s go down to the station, and you can explain it to me and the D.A.”
Thirty-eight
EAGLE AND SUSANNAH HAD LUNCH AT THE TESUQUE Market, sitting on the front porch. The weather was gorgeous, as it usually was in Santa Fe.
“I’m kind of drowsy,” Susannah said. “Maybe I’d better have a cup of coffee.”
“No, you should have a nap. What you have is a mild case of altitude sickness; you have to remember that we’re at seven thousand feet of elevation here, and it takes at least twenty-four hours to get over it. Let’s go back to the house, and you can stretch out for a while.”
They drove back up the mountain, and on the front doorstep Eagle picked up a Federal Express envelope with a shipping label showing that it had been sent from Mexico. He put Susannah to bed, then went into his study, sat down and opened the envelope with a real sense of satisfaction. Inside were six blank sheets of paper. Furious, he called Vittorio’s cell phone, but all he got was voice mail. He tried Cupie’s, too, and the same thing happened. What the hell was going on down there? Then he noticed the light on his answering machine was flashing. He pressed the message button.
