by David Thurlo
Almost nervous now as he locked the back door, Charlie turned and waved as Gordon drove off, a silly grin on his pal’s face. Tomorrow, hopefully, they would be back to close to normal, or as normal as could be in his life. He also knew that his own car would be available again and he could pick it up at impound. The rental was fine, but it wasn’t a Charger.
The drive to her apartment building was routine, but Charlie found himself shaking just a little as he pulled up into the covered parking lot for residents. There was an open slot next to Ruth’s small sedan. Luck was certainly on his side at the moment. It had been a long day. He was feeling weary and worn-out and what kept his head up was knowing he’d be seeing Ruth. Any time with her was the bright spot in his day.
Charlie glanced around, noting that most of the parking spaces were in use. This building catered to an older clientele, mostly retired couples, and Ruth and Rene were as safe here as anyplace in the city. Stepping out of the car, he thumbed the key fob to lock up and walked toward the main entrance. A tall, older woman with silver hair and a long print dress had her back to him, reaching into the backseat of a car for a bag of groceries.
“Hi, Charlie!” came a distinctive male voice as the woman turned to face him.
He instantly recognized Ruth’s ex-husband, Lawrence, who was disguised as a woman. Charlie reached down for his Beretta. Suddenly his body was wracked with agonizing pain. He turned his head as he fell to the asphalt, realizing he’d just been tased. A man wearing a camo mask and ball cap was standing there.
“Don’t fight it,” the guy ordered in a Southern drawl. He lowered the Taser device in his left hand, but raised a pistol in his right.
There was a small plop, and Charlie looked down through watery eyes at a tranquilizer dart stuck in his gut. As he fumbled for his pistol, Charlie felt a massive impact at the back of his head and everything went dark.
Charlie woke up on his back upon a cold, hard-metal, uneven surface. He was covered by some kind of cheap tarp, judging from the strong, plastic smell of the material. His head was throbbing and his hands were tied behind his back with what felt like rope. He tried to roll over to relieve the cramp in his arms, then realized his hands were also connected to some unyielding surface.
As his thoughts cleared, he discovered he was tied to the bed of a pickup and not a van, based upon the roar of the road and the rush of wind across the open bed that caused the tarp to flap up and down. The tarp was tied down as well, but at least he could breathe, and he wasn’t wounded, and hopefully not dead and in limbo. He’d suffered the blow to the head and the obvious scrape and scratches incurred when he was thrashing about from being tased, but he knew he’d be capable of fighting back when the opportunity came.
He extended his legs, probing the bed of the pickup and restoring circulation at the same time. Charlie was grateful that he was the only person back here. On the down side, Gordon was probably at home, and Turner was watching over Dawud Koury and his family, which meant he’d be elsewhere. He could use some help right now.
With no idea where he was, or where Ruth’s ex and his masked companion were taking him, Charlie knew that his captors had kept him alive only because killing him outside the apartment would gather way too much attention and leave a mess. There was no doubt in his mind, once Westerfield had shown himself, that this was intended to be a one-way trip, and not to Canada. He and Gordon had destroyed Westerfield’s attempt to kidnap Ruth and their son a few years ago, and this had led to the man’s arrest by the FBI. If they wanted him to dig his own grave, at least he could deny them that final indignity. Someone besides him was going to be hurt tonight. There was no way Charlie was going down on his knees and submit to a shot in the back of his head.
Not knowing how much time he had, though, Charlie assessed his options. He was still wearing his boots and belt, and didn’t have any way of knowing what was still in his pockets. Naturally his weapon and cell phone were gone. The phone itself had no doubt been disabled or trashed. What he needed most, right now, was figuring out how to free his hands.
Charlie tugged to the left, then right, confirming that he’d been anchored to opposite sides of the pickup bed with ropes attached to the screw eyes often used to tie down loads. He was able to sit up a little, but it strained his arms and back, so he lay back. All he could do at the moment was try and loosen the knots around his wrists—if he could reach with just his fingers. He could also listen and guess if and when they slowed down going through a village or town. Maybe he could yell and gather some attention, or pass by a big truck and get spotted by the driver. Unfortunately, that might get an innocent citizen shot. He’d have to decide instantly if the opportunity arose, weighing the risks.
The pickup continued at highway speeds for an estimated half hour or more, then the truck slowed. The occasional passing vehicle told him they were most likely on a two-lane road. If they’d left Albuquerque on the interstate, they would’ve taken an exit before he had regained consciousness. The pickup turned off onto bumpy, uneven ground. The driver geared down and they fishtailed slightly. That suggested sandy ground, which didn’t rule out many locations in New Mexico. He sat up the best he could to avoid smashing his head against metal with every bump.
There was the vague scent of pine, or juniper, which suggested they’d left the highway in the vicinity of the Sandia or Manzano Mountains. That’s where the forests lay, at least considering the time period he estimated. Until he got a glimpse of the horizon again, however, it was only a guess. He could also be in the Jemez Mountains farther to the northwest.
He was bounced around for several minutes and at one point it sounded like they were stuck in the sand or mud. The tires had spun and whipped back and forth, and he’d smelled hot exhaust. Finally, just about when he was wondering how much more he could remain in a slanted, seated position, they came to a halt, though the motor was still running. Charlie lay back down, trying to recharge his muscles and be ready when the time came.
It was very dark, with just a crescent moon high in the sky. Someone untied the tarp and threw it up and off of him. “Get your side, Larry,” he heard Westerfield’s partner order from the driver’s side of the pickup bed.
Westerfield cleared his throat. “Shine your light on Charlie first, Porter. He’s a troublesome bastard and he might have untied a rope. I’m not reaching in there until I know both his hands are secure.”
“No lights, Larry,” Porter ordered. “Even here, there might be some idiot hanging out, jacking deer, who’ll spot us.”
“But they wouldn’t hear the truck? Just do it. That’s what I’m paying you for,” Westerfield snapped.
“Okay, but it’s your sorry ass too. I’m not the one who’s going back to jail for life.”
Charlie closed his eyes once he heard the flashlight click on, not wanting to ruin his night vision.
“Afraid of the dark, Charlie?” Westerfield said.
Charlie coughed.
“Hope you’re not coming down with something,” Ruth’s ex said with a chuckle. “Okay, it’s loose, Porter,” he added, pulling the tarp off the truck bed onto the ground.
Charlie felt a tug on his arms and then the release of pressure. Westerfield had also unfastened the rope that anchored his left arm to that side of the truck bed. It was still too early to make a move. He needed to be out of the pickup first.
Instead of rolling over onto his side, he waited until the second rope was loose. Once that was done, he sat up slowly and looked to his right, where he’d heard Porter’s voice. There was enough light to see that the man was still wearing that camo mask, the kind bow hunters used to hide in blinds and ambush deer. In a warped way, that gave Charlie some hope.
“Stay still, it might keep you from being shot,” Westerfield ordered as he walked slowly around to the tailgate, aiming what looked like Charlie’s Beretta. The masked man remained at the other end of the pickup bed beside the driver’s door, his light on Charlie.
“Now scoo
t toward me,” Westerfield ordered.
“Okay, Larry,” Charlie said, eager to put some motion to his muscles and ease the cramps and aches.
“That’s Mr. Westerfield to you, Indian.”
“Whatever you say, Pale Face,” Charlie replied.
Porter laughed.
Charlie continued inching along the pickup bed toward the tailgate, pulling himself with his legs, one at a time. He was sweating now, and the ropes around his wrists seemed a little looser, but not enough to slip them off. The needle-sharp pain of restoring circulation required him to focus on the immediate problem—survival.
When Charlie’s feet reached the tailgate, Larry stepped back, taking the flashlight from his companion. Porter came up beside Charlie, aiming a revolver with his gloved right hand. In his left hand, also gloved, was a large machete.
“Okay, Charlie, slide off the tailgate onto your feet,” Larry ordered. “Don’t even think of making a run for it.”
Charlie complied, now certain he knew Larry’s plan. He had to keep him talking, because every second was important. Any lie would help. “So you were responsible for the shootings and threats, Larry. You want my death to look like the work of a terrorist. But why kill Nathan Whitaker? You or your sniper missed me by three feet.”
“That wasn’t us, Mr. Henry. We didn’t arrive in Albuquerque until three days after it started,” Porter protested.
“I should have been so lucky, having some Arab nutjob killing you first. It would have saved me the trouble and I could have gone straight to Central America a happy camper,” Larry replied. “I’m an opportunist, though, and with the money I’d kept stashed in a few places—minus Mr. Porter’s fee—I’ll be able to live the rest of my life elsewhere. For you, however, it’s the end of the road. Or trail of the Great Spirit, I guess.”
“What about the woman you abused for so long? Your son?” Charlie asked, then turned to face the masked man. “Don’t take part in hurting a mother and child for this perv’s gratification, Mr. Porter,” he added.
Westerfield chuckled. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I’d considered punishing her, but this terrorist opportunity provides me with such a gift. There’s no way I can be blamed for taking you out now. It’s a perfect setup. I’ve even printed up a message announcing the latest ISIS victory against the American dogs—you. Copied right off a local news website. It’ll be found on your decapitated body, of course.”
“So you don’t know they’ve already caught the killer. It was actually a woman, not a man,” Charlie responded, hoping to stall a little longer.
“Nice try, Charlie. It’s time now, Porter,” Larry added.
“Step away from the tailgate, Mr. Henry. Slowly,” the masked man ordered, motioning with his revolver barrel.
Charlie took a reluctant step, his eyes on the mask. “Make Larry do his own dirty work, Mr. Porter. He’s a gutless, child-abusing, wife beater who stole millions from people like you and me. Don’t be his patsy.”
“Shoot the bastard, Porter. That’s what I’m paying you for,” Westerfield ordered, aiming the flashlight at Porter.
Porter pulled the hammer back on the revolver. Charlie tensed, watching his trigger finger.
Charlie dove beneath the tailgate. Porter fired, and there was a gasp. Charlie looked up and saw Lawrence’s hand at his bloody face. Lawrence dropped to the sand, thrashed around for a few seconds, and then remained still.
Porter stepped over, grabbed the Beretta off the ground, and turned toward Charlie. “Come on out, soldier, but stay on your knees. I won’t shoot unless you grab for a weapon.”
“What just happened?” Charlie asked.
“When I found out who you really were, I wasn’t about to kill one of my own, not unless I had to. I was paid a shitload of money to get Westerfield here, then take you out. He’s a sick, sorry bastard that needed to die. I’m going to be leaving in a few minutes, so don’t screw around and get yourself hurt. You good with that?”
“I’m good.”
Charlie watched as Porter, which was clearly not his real name, tossed the machete into the bushes, then crouched down beside the body and removed the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Porter took the wallet and cell phone, then stood and faced Charlie as he put the items into his jacket pocket.
“I want you to walk maybe twenty feet over there, Charlie, then set your butt on the ground.” Porter pointed, then waited until Charlie had complied. Charlie found it a bit awkward to sit down with his hands still bound behind his back.
“Here’s your wallet and keys, soldier,” Porter announced, dropping them on the ground. “I’m taking your cash, but I’ll leave the credit cards and ID. By the time you hike out to the road it’ll be close to dawn and I’ll be long gone. A final warning, though. Learn something from this and don’t let yourself get kidnapped again. It was too damned easy.”
As the pickup drove away, lights on, Charlie looked at the license plate codes despite knowing that the tags had probably been stolen. Then he scrambled to his feet and walked over to search in the bushes for the machete. It had landed in a cluster of scrawny-looking sagebrush, nestled on some branches about a foot off the ground, positioned almost horizontally. He balanced on one foot, raising the other to push and lift the long blade out from the bush. It took a few tries, but within seconds the machete was on the ground. He pushed it a little farther away from the brush to give himself room to sit down beside the blade.
A few minutes later enough of the rope had been cut for him to slip off the rest. Charlie’s hands and arms ached, but at least he was free, and he hadn’t cut himself except for a few scrapes and scratches. This time he stood easily, then looked around, gathering his keys and wallet, which, as Porter had said, was only missing the cash.
Lawrence was still dead, and the thought of going through his pockets was disgusting, but maybe there was something that had been missed. He established quickly that Porter had been very thorough. All he found was a pack of Tic Tacs, a small spiral notebook, and a pen.
He kept those, but decided to leave the machete behind. Carrying an eighteen-inch-long blade would send the wrong kind of message to any potential driver willing to stop once he made it back to the highway.
If Gordon or law enforcement was looking for him, and he was certain that was already a fact, there was little chance they’d find him outright. He had to make his location known, and the first step to getting help was reaching the main road.
Charlie took off at a fast jog, following the pickup tire tracks, hoping it was only a few miles, not ten, before he reached a road and any kind of traffic. The route he was taking right now was north, and in the near horizon was the vague outline of a mountain range that he knew was either the Manzanos or the Sandias. Both were west of his location. Once he reached either North or South 10, the highway which paralleled the mountains, he could catch a ride back, or at least have someone make a call.
His head still ached, but that was something aspirin would hopefully cure once he was back to civilization. He regulated his breathing and picked up the pace. Charlie had grown up running long distances on sand and dry earth, and this mountain dirt was hard and rocky in places, easier to traverse as long as he didn’t trip over a boulder or twist his ankle. Sunrise was probably hours away, so he’d have to do the best he could with only stars and the trace of the moon to light the way.
His watch had been taken off to make room for his rope handcuffs, but Charlie had a good sense for time. It only took about an hour-long run for him to see the highway in the distance. Another fifteen minutes and he was on the pavement, now walking and cooling off after the run through the forest. He’d violated one of the Navajo taboos, taking from the dead, but those Tic Tacs had helped keep his mouth moist.
Passing a mile post along the road, he wondered, for the first time, was that the distance from the last community, or the distance to the next? He suspected, from his current position relative to the mountains, that the next community he’d be re
aching was Tijeras, on the south end of the mountain pass. There lay the twin highways of I-40 and old Route 66.
Just as he was trying to estimate the remaining distance, he saw approaching headlights as a vehicle came around a curve in the steep side-canyon road. Charlie stepped a few feet out into the oncoming lane and held up his hands, waving. The vehicle was some kind of van or pickup, and as it closed the distance Charlie stepped back, still in the headlights, and beckoned for the person to stop.
The pale green pickup came to a stop about fifty feet away, and Charlie realized it was a forest service truck, complete with emergency running lights atop the cab. His day was looking up.
Chapter Twenty-two
The sun was high in the sky and there were over a dozen people standing in the lobby at the downtown Albuquerque police station when New Mexico State Police Officer Leon Nez escorted Charlie into the building through the law-enforcement-only entrance. Charlie was dragging, having spent hours traveling and telling his story at the spot down the forest road where Lawrence Westerfield had taken the dirt nap.
The first person he saw was Ruth, who smiled widely as their eyes met. She came forward in a rush, giving him such a welcoming hug that it almost made up for last night. He felt her tears on his cheek, and he would have kissed her if it hadn’t been for the news cameras and reporters.
“You know about Lawrence?” Charlie whispered, lowering his head so a lip reader couldn’t pick up his words. There were two cameras directed at them now.
“All I care about is that you’re safe, Charlie. Is it over now?” she whispered, stepping back, placing her palms against his chest as she stared into his eyes.
“I think so,” he answered, unable to suppress a smile.
Hearing footsteps, they turned as Gordon, Nancy, and Detective DuPree walked over to join them.
