Rafael went for a long drive into Mexico when he got off work that afternoon. On his way back he stopped at the Blue Parrot for dinner, sitting in the back booth, looking so fierce and formidable that even the waitress was hesitant to approach him. After he finished eating he thought about going to the office—anything to avoid going home to a house that he knew was going to be empty. But, calling himself a coward, when he left the bar he headed for home.
He didn’t need to check the closet or the dresser drawers to know that Krista’s things were gone. He felt it in the silence. The house had lost its warmth, its friendliness. He undressed, took a shower, then lay down in the bed they had shared.
It was a long, lonely night.
Krista saw Rafael the next day. Having eaten nothing since breakfast Friday, she was forced by her rumbling stomach to go out for lunch on Saturday. She had the bad luck to choose the restaurant where Rafael and Richard Houseman were finishing their lunch. She stood in the doorway near the sign that read Please Wait to be Seated, her expression frozen, and swore to herself that she would not speak, would not react in any way. Not even when Rafael approached her after paying for his meal and stopped right beside her, speaking her name in that raspy voice that she loved so much.
She might have been carved from stone for all the response she gave. Marble, Rafael thought. Beautiful, cold marble. She stared straight ahead, completely motionless, hardly even breathing. He thought that if he touched her the marble might crack and fall away, but he didn’t want to see what was underneath. He’d had nightmares about the pain he’d caused her, and he couldn’t bear to see it again. Wounded by the lack of love in her beautiful blue eyes—by the lack of any feeling at all—he silently walked out the door and left her standing there.
Houseman stopped in front of her. “Are you enjoying this, Krista?” he asked sarcastically before following the other man out.
She stood there for a moment, her eyes squeezed shut, until the waitress asked, “You want smoking or non-smoking?”
Krista looked at her as if she didn’t understand the words. “Smoking…?” she repeated in a daze. “No. I—I don’t…” Her hunger forgotten, she turned and left the restaurant.
“The shipment is due tomorrow.” Houseman waited for Rafael’s response, but none came. “Did you hear me?”
The other man nodded once. “The shipment is due tomorrow. Over five hundred kilos. Where?”
“Here. He’s bringing it right through the border checkpoint. Can you believe the nerve of that bastard?”
Rafael rubbed his eyes. It had been a hell of a week; he really didn’t know how he’d gotten through it. He was learning to sleep a little, though he still reached for Krista a half dozen times each night, still wondered for a brief minute each morning where she was before the truth struck him with fresh pain: she was gone. He’d lost her, and he didn’t know if he could ever get her back.
“Do you want to be there tomorrow when we get McLaren?”
Rafael shrugged. “Yes.” Not that it mattered much to him one way or another, but he had nothing else to do.
“Eight o’clock, my apartment.”
Rafael left the conference room that Houseman was using as an office and returned to his desk. A message was propped up on his phone, and he reached for it. The name McLaren leaped out at him, and his heart skipped a few beats. Krista had called him! he thought excitedly; then his happiness faded with the realization that the first name wasn’t Krista. It was Art. Art McLaren wanted to see him at la casa grande as soon as he could come.
He stared at the piece of paper as if it could give him the answers to the questions whirling in his mind. What did Art want with him? Had he heard that Krista was no longer living with him? Or had he somehow heard about the investigation? But there were no answers on the paper. Only Art McLaren held the answers.
Art was waiting for him. He ordered Rafael to follow him, then climbed into a pickup and drove off. They were several miles from the house when Art stopped. They had crested a hill that gave them a broad view of McLaren land.
Rafael walked over to Art, who held out a pair of binoculars. “Look out there. Krista’s dependable—came out to exercise her horse just like always. No one else can ride him, you know.”
Hesitantly he took the glasses and turned them in the direction Art had indicated. First he saw no sign of life; then he turned slightly, and a big black stallion and its rider appeared. He swallowed hard. It was Krista and Diablo. He started to lower the binoculars, but Art said, “Keep watching.”
As he did, four more riders approached. Leading them was Jack Marshall.
“I know you’re onto my little…sideline,” Art said, smiling smugly. “I’m retiring tomorrow. My final order is due then. If you arrest me, if you interfere in any way, she won’t come back from this ride alive. You know how easy it is for someone to die out there—especially someone who comes from the city, who knows nothing about survival in the desert. She could get thrown from her horse, wander off, not hear the men calling…. She’d die slowly. You know that, don’t you? Painfully.” He shook his head with regret. “Hell of a way for a girl to die.”
Rafael took one more look. Krista was frightened, and Diablo, protective of his mistress, was wild-eyed, ears flattened back. Rafael lowered the binoculars and turned ice-cold eyes on her father. His face, as usual, was emotionless, but his eyes were full of fury and anger and something else, something that brought a smile of triumph to Art’s face: anguish.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice low and cold and empty.
“Call off whatever you’ve got planned for tomorrow. I want my shipment, without any trouble from you. And forget about the investigation. I won’t be bringing in any more people or drugs after tomorrow, and I want to be left alone for the rest of my life.”
Rafael nodded once. “Tell them to bring her back.”
“Not yet. They’ll bring her back tomorrow night. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Contreras, but…I like to play it safe.” Art smiled, accepting the binoculars that Rafael held in limp hands. “Then we have a deal?”
The word came out unwillingly. “Yes.” A deal that Rafael couldn’t make; he didn’t have the authority. Houseman would never go along, not even to save Krista’s life, but Rafael needed time, time to plan.
“I’m pleased that you’re so reasonable, Contreras,” Art said, unable to resist the urge to rub it in. “I half expected you to refuse. I would kill her, have no doubt about that, but it does seem such a waste, doesn’t it? It’s a little disappointing, though. I didn’t think you would ever allow anyone to interfere with your work, especially a woman. You’ve become too human, Contreras. Now you have a weakness.”
In silence Rafael walked to his truck, got in and drove away across the parched grass. Now he had a weakness, he thought cynically. Krista was one hell of a weakness.
He felt frozen as he drove back to town, refusing to let himself think or feel too much. He had to stay calm. He needed a plan, and he needed help.
Houseman was still in the office, several strangers with him. He didn’t bother to introduce them, but Rafael knew they were fellow DEA agents, there to take part in the arrest. Rafael stood silently, and after a moment Houseman asked the three men to leave them alone for a minute.
“They have Krista.”
Houseman looked puzzled. “Who has her?”
“McLaren’s people.”
“You mean she went to her father’s house?”
“I mean,” Rafael said sharply, “that McLaren sent her out with Jack Marshall and three others. They’re going to kill her if we arrest him tomorrow.”
“Damn! How did he find out that we’re going to bust him tomorrow?”
Rafael shrugged. “He said to call off what I’ve got planned, that he doesn’t want any trouble from me. He didn’t mention anyone else. I don’t think he knows about you.”
Houseman was relieved. “He probably thinks you found out about the il
legals, then stumbled onto the drugs. If he doesn’t know about us, then we’re all right. Where’d they take her?”
“I don’t know. There are dozens of places out there to hide.”
Richard Houseman walked to the door and stared out, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his slacks. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and considered their options. When he turned back to Rafael the answer was written on his face. “We can’t call it off.”
“You want to let them kill her.”
“Of course I don’t, damn it!” Richard studied him for a long moment, then asked the question that he knew would anger the other man, but he had to know. “Are you sure they kidnapped her? Are you sure she didn’t go along willingly? She has to know that you’d do whatever you could to help her. You would call the whole thing off if it were up to you.”
Rafael’s entire body tensed. He radiated outrage, but when he spoke his voice was low and quiet and tightly controlled. “I saw her face. She was terrified. She’s afraid of Jack Marshall, and she knows what’s going on. She knows they’re going to kill her.”
“I can’t help you, Rafe. The DEA has spent a lot of time and a lot of money on this case. I can’t go in and tell my bosses that we had to call it off because we thought one possibly innocent woman might get killed. I can’t do it.” He dragged his hands through his hair in frustration, spitting out a low curse. “Can you track?”
Rafael nodded.
“Are you good?”
“The best here.” But was that good enough? he agonized. Was he good enough to save Krista?
“I can’t help you, but if you wanted to go tonight to see what you could do, I couldn’t stop you, either. How many men are with her?”
“Four when I saw her.”
“Can you find her and take care of them?”
Rafael closed his eyes briefly and saw again the fear on Krista’s face when the four men had intercepted her. He would find her and free her, he vowed, or die trying.
Tracking was a combination of skill and luck. Luck was with Rafael in that he knew what direction they had been heading and precisely where to go on McLaren’s property to pick up their trail. Skill was going to be necessary because he had to wait until the sun had set, giving them at least a four-hour head start. He couldn’t risk being seen on McLaren’s land, and he was going to have to track by flashlight.
He took only the most basic equipment: a strong flashlight with extra batteries; a notepad; a pencil; a measuring tape; and a tracking stick. The last was a sturdy walking stick with rubber-band markers. Once she was on foot, two successive prints would give measurements, marked on the stick with the rubber bands, that would be invaluable in following her trail: the length of her foot; the length of her stride; and the step interval—the distance between the end of one step and the beginning of the next. His job would be made easier by the fact that Krista was the only woman in the group, and also by the fact that she was wearing sneakers—some part of his mind had noticed that through the binoculars—while the men were most likely wearing boots. When they dismounted from the horses the size and shape of her prints would make telling her tracks from those of the men simple, and the tracking stick would make following them much easier.
As the sun set lower in the western sky he changed to a dark shirt, jacket and jeans. He threaded his holster through his belt and added a .357 Magnum. On the table next to a rifle lay extra ammunition for the two guns, a razor-sharp hunting knife, a canteen of water and some granola bars.
He chose the better of his two horses and set out for the place where he had last seen Krista. He found the five sets of tracks right where he expected them. Though only a few hours old, they were already starting to disappear; the ground was soft and sandy and couldn’t hold a print long. Swinging to the ground, he held the flashlight far out to one side so that its beam was cast directly across the tracks, creating shadows and making the prints more visible. Since he knew that Krista had ridden out alone, then been joined by the other four, he was able to separate Diablo’s tracks from those of the other horses. If the horses separated, at least he would know which direction the big stallion had gone.
An hour’s ride led to harder ground, and signs became harder to find. He relied on flat spots, small areas where the dirt had been leveled by the weight of the horses, and areas where the small rocks and pebbles had been pushed into the dirt or uprooted from their beds and scuffed forward.
Three hours into the search Rafael was kneeling beside some of the few clear prints. Two of the horses—neither one Diablo—had broken off and headed south. A third one had joined the others from the south, and those four had continued northward. Rafael was unsure which group to follow. If they suspected he might follow them, they would split up to confuse him, but which group had Krista?
He decided to continue tracking Diablo. The stallion’s tracks showed that he was still being ridden and was under control, and he knew that the horse was skittish around anyone but Krista. He was betting that she wouldn’t be separated from her horse, and he’d better be right, he thought grimly, because Krista’s life depended on it.
He was rewarded some three hundred yards later. The party ahead of him had stopped to rest, and among the prints he found were flats—tracks with no separate, elevated heel, consistent with the sneakers Krista had been wearing—whose size indicated that they belonged to a woman. There were also three distinct sets of heels—tracks with a separate, elevated heel—all belonging to men.
Rafael drew out the notepad, pencil and measuring tape, then made quick sketches of each of the four tracks, drawing them exactly to size and adding all markings—patterns on the shoe soles, cuts, irregularities. Next he used the tracking stick to follow Krista’s tracks. They led away from the men and the horses, and her stride became greatly extended: she had started running. One of the men had followed, and Rafael found evidence of a scuffle twenty yards away.
He stared at the tracks leading back to the horses. Again Krista’s stride had altered; this time the left side was consistently shorter than the right. She was limping; she had suffered some sort of injury in her attempt to escape. She knew she was in danger, and she was scared. That thought tore at Rafael’s gut. He could imagine her terror, and he swore he would make them all pay for it when he reached them. No one would ever be allowed to make her suffer such fear again.
It was almost dawn when he noticed the smell. Smoke. They had built a fire somewhere up ahead of him—not far, judging by the smell. He was almost there; he had almost found her. The tracks led him to the mouth of a small canyon. Close inspection of the bushes that grew there showed several leaves turned at odd angles, the undersides showing. They had almost returned to their natural positions, meaning that it had been some time since they were disturbed. Several more leaves near the ground had been stepped on by the horses. Rafael turned them over to examine the bruising on the bottom sides. Fresh wounds were usually dark green; then they gradually turned black, then either gray or light brown. These leaves were practically black.
Rafael left his horse and disappeared into the canyon. He hoped to spot Krista and her guards. If he could catch them while they were still sleeping he would have a better chance of getting her out safely, without putting her in any more danger than she was already in.
The ground was hard, the sleeping bag inadequate protection against the chill air and the millions of little rocks, but Krista was so tired that her body ignored the discomfort and slept. Her sleeping bag was in front of a large rock, facing the three men and the dying fire some twenty feet away.
They were careless, letting her sleep so far away, Rafael thought. They probably thought she was helpless, thought no one would come after her. They were wrong. He moved in silence through the early-morning light, then knelt beside her. Very carefully, very slowly, he pulled the zipper of the sleeping bag down. Knife in hand, he reached inside to find her ankles. They were tied loosely together, and he sliced easily through the rope withou
t disturbing her. Remembering the fall she’d taken in her escape attempt, he checked her left ankle and found it swollen. He cursed silently. She would have trouble walking, and running would probably be impossible. But that was all right. He could carry her.
When Krista felt a pair of strong, warm hands move up her body she stiffened. Just before they reached her own hands, she raised hers, which were tied together with a length of rope, and hit her attacker under the chin, forcing his head back. She felt something cold and heavy fall onto her stomach, and she opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was cut off by a hand over her mouth and a frantic whisper, “It’s me, Krista! Querida, it’s me!”
Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at Rafael. When he saw that she recognized him, he uncovered her mouth and picked up the knife that he had dropped, then freed her wrists. “Can you walk?” he asked, pushing the sleeping bag out of the way.
She had no idea whether her ankle could support her weight or not, but she nodded anyway. Rafael sheathed the knife and moved back to stand up. He froze when he felt cold, hard metal against the back of his head. He became completely motionless; his breathing stopped. He was astounded when Krista smiled faintly at the man behind him and reached out her hand to him. Didn’t she realize the guy was holding a gun to Rafael’s head?
She did, but she didn’t stop. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s Rafael.”
The gun was removed; then a familiar young voice said mockingly, “It’s not smart to get so involved looking at pretty ladies that you don’t hear someone come up behind you, Contreras.” Eduardo put away the gun and came around to help Krista up. “I’m going with you.”
Rafael stared up at him. There were a million questions running through his mind, but now wasn’t the time to ask them. He rose fluidly to his feet. “Let’s get out of the canyon,” he ordered. “Then I’ll come back and get the horses.”
Within Reach Page 23
