The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “Where are they taking him?” Julie stood by Mary’s desk and watched the paramedics load Johnson into the ambulance.

  “Albuquerque. I’m going to run over to his house and tell his wife. Could you answer phones while I’m gone?”

  + + +

  The pinpoint of light seared his pupils as it wandered back and forth. First, one eye and then the other. Someone pulling up his eyelids and looking into his soul.

  “Aghhhh.” Johnson sat bolt upright. The intern’s penlight clattered to the floor. Johnson looked around. The startled doctor had jumped back from the examining table and was hovering about three feet away.

  “Governor Yepa, how are you feeling?”

  Johnson tried to rub his eyes but hit himself in the nose with a ball of gauze. His hands were taped and wrapped. Boy, if his hands were this bad after the fight, think of the other guy. Only, Johnson didn’t remember a fight. There was something in the back of his memory trying to move up into his consciousness. He strained but couldn’t quite reach it. Couldn’t quite ...

  “No. No. No. No.” Johnson scooted to the bottom edge of the table; the hospital gown, open in the back, caught on one of two metal triangles that jutted out from the base. He hopped off trailing a strip of ragged blue-checked cotton. He didn’t see his clothes. He needed to get out of there.

  “Nurse!” The intern had moved to block the door and was yelling over his shoulder into the hallway.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Governor, you’ve been injured. We need to finish the examination. I’m suggesting you stay with us overnight just for observation.”

  “Can’t do that.” Johnson now saw the packet clearly, on the edge of his desk where Lorenzo had placed it. Of course, Lorenzo had stolen it in the first place. Why hadn’t he thought of that? And now that girl knew about the packet. Knew something about the packet. How much did she know? He needed to think. He couldn’t stay here.

  “I’m reluctant to release you without running some more tests. You’ve lost some blood. You appeared to be in shock when you came in.”

  “His wife is here.” A nurse poked her head in the door.

  “She’ll take me home.” Johnson looked around the room again trying to see his clothes.

  “I won’t hold you against your will, but I want you to promise to rest. Take it easy a couple days and call us if any of the symptoms return. Nurse, get Governor Yepa’s clothes.”

  TWELVE

  “What do you mean you never thought it would come to this? We all knew it was possible. Not very probable, but possible.” The elder Anderson was pacing in front of the window that framed the Sangre de Cristo mountains. There was already a dusting of early autumn snow on the peaks. He felt strangely confident. No, relieved. Perhaps, it was his need for control. Whatever. The deaths of two more people were necessary. The sooner the better. Johnson Yepa had proved himself to be unreliable. And Tony’s lab held the answers to all the CDC’s questions.

  “What about the reporter?” Bob Crenshaw asked. “Do you think I should worry that she asked for one of my t-shirts?”

  “Why’d she do that?” Junior asked.

  “Something about a kid seeing someone raid the traps. Kid thought he recognized a Harley emblem.”

  “Would Tony try to implicate you? We know he helped himself to some rodents. Maybe he wore a Harley t-shirt to be funny,” Junior said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past the little jerk to put the screws to us,” Bob said.

  “Doesn’t sound like this reporter has much. Anyway, let’s not worry about her just yet. Isn’t she our best insider at the moment? Won’t she keep you informed?” Douglas Anderson, Sr. waited until Bob nodded before going on. “I think we know who needs to be removed. We can’t risk their sharing what they know.”

  Douglas barely acknowledged their nods as he turned his back to the room to stare at the mountains again. This view was his salvation. A glass-encased valium for the spirit. He had built this office building and kept the corner office with the 180 degree view for himself. The burnt-orange leather couch, loveseat and ottoman were the only manmade attempts at decoration. Not very good ones, even taking into consideration the Peter Hurd oil on the back wall.

  No, he needed to commune with nature, God’s handiwork. He felt strong looking at ten thousand feet of solid rock. The aspens were turning. Blocks of gold edged long sweeps of green that defined the upper slopes. Deciduous trees whose glory was two weeks long once a year. Nature shooting its wad and waiting twelve months to do it again.

  “Dad? What’s our time frame for what has to be done?”

  “Quickly. I don’t think we have much time.”

  + + +

  “We have pretty solid proof that the original lab packet was taken from the governor’s office,” Julie said. “I also think it was the fake lab packet that made Johnson react like he did.”

  “What are you saying? That Johnson might have been involved? Might have known what the packet contained?” Sandy had asked Ben for an update on the poster campaign but welcomed a chance to question Julie about Johnson Yepa’s “spell.” It had unnerved the new intern who had treated him.

  “Yes. I want to investigate Johnson. It might answer some questions.”

  “What will you do?” Ben asked.

  “Interview people, do a police check, credit check—those kinds of things. Has he been doing anything out of the ordinary, been seen with people who might have a motive; it might lead somewhere.”

  “You know, when I called the tribal office today, Mary said Johnson was recuperating at Elephant Butte. I thought it was so strange that I questioned her.” Sandy paused. “She said he had a boat on the lake. Not that he had rented one, but he owned one.”

  “I never knew he owned a boat. What pueblo Indian would have a boat? Must be something recent. Maybe I’ll check around. There aren’t many boat shops in Albuquerque.” Ben reached for the phone book. He’d jot down a couple addresses and then drop in to talk with the salespeople. They might not be very open over the phone.

  Ben didn’t know what he was looking for, but Marineland seemed a good place to start. He parked in the drive and hadn’t crossed the lot before a salesman accosted him.

  “How can I help you today?” The salesman’s plaid jacket was expensive but tasteless, Ben thought.

  “A friend of mine bought a boat here recently. Keeps it at the Butte. I’d like some information about buying one like it.”

  Ben thought the man almost licked his lips. It was certain he could hardly contain his excitement.

  “Would this friend be an Indian gentleman?”

  “Yes. Governor of the Tewa Pueblo. Johnson Yepa.”

  “Oh yes. I worked personally with Mr. Yepa, but he knew exactly what he wanted. Twin engines. Plenty of power. And the insignia. How do you like that emblem?”

  “Emblem?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. The flycatcher. No, that’s not quite it. Big net thing with feathers. You know, right underneath the name.”

  “A dream catcher?”

  “Yes. Had that symbol done special for him at the factory. It turned out perfect—silver and white with a touch of turquoise.”

  “Must have set him back a paycheck or two,” Ben said.

  The salesman laughed nervously. “I was led to believe that Mr. Yepa was independently wealthy. But come with me; let’s look at the catalogs and talk about what you want.”

  “Can you show me the model Johnson has?”

  “Right here.” The salesman spread a four-color foldout across the desk. “Now the detailing was extra. I think he ended up paying about four thousand for that. And he chose a custom engine job.”

  “So how much is this going to cost me?”

  “Well, Maybe I can work a discount on this model.” The salesman feverishly pressed his calculator’s keys. “Give or take a few hundred—maybe you’ll want some additional gear—it should come in at around seventy thousand.”

  Ben was gla
d he was sitting. Seventy thousand. Where did Johnson get that kind of money?

  “How long will it take to get one in?” Ben asked.

  “Without the special paint job, about two and a half weeks.”

  “I’ll let you know.” Ben rose to go.

  “Listen, it will be a pleasure doing business with you, but do me one favor. Don’t do like your friend did and carry all that cash around with you. It’s just too dangerous. Ask someone to help you open a bank account. That’s safer.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Ben said.

  + + +

  Junior Anderson waited, masked by the shadows of the alley. Finally, Tony’s secretary left the building, slipped behind the wheel of the blue Ford Escort, and pulled out onto Montgomery Blvd. He had parked his Toyota 4x4 and ridden his mountain bike down the paved access driveway behind the lab. He lucked into finding a party in full swing just two blocks over. One car more or less wouldn’t be noticed. He shifted the heavy backpack to rest higher on his shoulders.

  Leaning the bike against the back wall, Junior stood in the shadows and listened. An air compressor of some kind roared on, the main unit enclosed in chain link not two feet from the back door. He’d called ahead. Said he’d be by at nine. It was Tony who had suggested coming in the back. Did he suspect something? Hard to tell with him.

  Junior needed enough time to case the lab, decide where to place the incendiary bomb, kill Tony and get out of there. He took a gulp of the chilly night air and began a series of relaxation exercises he used to ward off migraines. He felt the stress melt from his forearms dissipating through his neck and shoulders making him feel lightheaded. He slumped against the wall but the heavy backpack almost toppled him. A little before nine. It was time to get going.

  Junior pressed the button by the door. He wasn’t sure it worked. The place was tight and soundproof. That was good. Tony answered before he could press the buzzer a second time. He followed Tony through a darkened room to the center part of the lab and dropped the backpack on a nearby table. A rat-like animal with enlarged canines was in a cage on Tony’s desk.

  “So what’s the occasion? Need more reassurance?”

  “You could say that,” Junior said.

  Tony was fussing with the rat, which seemed to be in an ill humor. “You know after I handed over the packet, my part was finished. If you guys couldn’t control ...”

  Junior’s fist slammed down on the desk; the startled rat crashed against the top of his cage, eyes wild.

  “Dump and run. Is that it? Let me tell you something—”

  He leaned across the desk but pulled back, dragging his hand across a fist-sized granite paperweight. What the hell? Tony was swinging the rat by the tail. So much for strangling him. Without thinking, Junior grabbed the paperweight and swung at Tony, the blow grazing his right temple.

  With one flick of Tony’s wrist, the rat came flying through the air clawing and slashing the front of Junior’s down vest on the way to his neck. Junior felt its teeth sink into his thumb as he struck at it, then unzipped the vest dropping rat and goose feathers to the floor. He drop-kicked the writhing bundle against the wall. The rat was either dead or stunned, but it didn’t move.

  He turned back to Tony. Only he was gone. Junior spun in a circle.

  Where ... ?

  Then he saw Tony wiggling on the floor, pulling himself toward some sort of trap door under a heavy table. Tony pulled the door open and disappeared head first into blackness. Junior lunged and caught the edge of the door before it clicked into place. He had just inched forward for better leverage when he felt the rat crawl up his pants leg.

  “God damn it.” Junior jumped to his feet stamping the floor as he unbuckled his belt and dropped his Levi’s. This time he grabbed the rat by the tail and bashed it against the wall. It went limp, and he tossed it on Tony’s desk. Junior rearranged his clothing. He didn’t need to try the trap door. By now, it was secured from the inside. He took a moment to steady himself.

  Maybe this was better. He’d block the trapdoor with something heavy, set the bomb for twelve minutes, ride to the Toyota and be out of the neighborhood before the lab went up. It would appear that Tony had been trapped. Not killed. Trapped. Junior started to whistle. By the second bar of “Some Enchanted Evening,” two rows of caged rats had roused themselves to stare at him.

  + + +

  Julie had promised to cover the “live from the street” portion of the ten o’clock news for a reporter who had gone home ill. Julie was hoping the evening would be slow and she’d have a chance to do some Johnson research. But no, just her luck that there was a four alarm fire in the Heights.

  The news van pulled up across the street and slipped past the police barricades before the area was cordoned off. The fire was burning rapidly. Flames leaped twenty to thirty feet and illuminated the night sky.

  “What kind of store is it?” Julie couldn’t remember what had been there and the sign across the front of the building had melted and slipped to the sidewalk.

  “Bug place. You know, exterminator stuff. Probably why it’s going up so quickly. Lots of chemicals.” The cameraman finished dragging equipment from the van.

  “I’ve never seen anything burn like this. Will they let us get closer?” Julie asked.

  “Not much closer for awhile. Guess we’ll just have to wait this one out. At least the structure is cement block.” He began getting shots of the fire and surrounding shopping center.

  “I’ll try to interview some of the other shop owners. I’ll meet you back here in thirty minutes.” Julie walked toward a health club where an assortment of people in workout clothing clustered on the sidewalk.

  “How did the fire start? Did you see anything?” she questioned the woman nearest the door.

  “It wasn’t a matter of seeing. It’s what we heard.”

  “Loudest explosion I’ve ever experienced. Sonic boom stuff. Enough to rattle the windows.” People recognized Julie and crowded around hoping for an on-camera interview. This always happens, she thought.

  “What did you see?” Julie turned to another bystander.

  “The fire just rolled out of the top of the roof.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t see nobody leave, either,” someone said.

  “Is there reason to believe that people may have been trapped in the building?” Julie asked.

  “Could be. Mr. Chang and his secretary are usually the only ones who stay late. I didn’t see them leave tonight.”

  “Mr. Chang?” Julie asked.

  “Anthony Chang of Bugs No More.”

  “Do you know Mr. Chang?”

  “Not really. I’ve worked here at the center for three years and I’ve seen him a few times. Keeps to himself.”

  “Thank you. Will you be here later if I want an on-camera interview?” The woman shrugged and didn’t seem too interested in being televised.

  The firemen used foam to smother the flames then water to soak the perimeter of the building. Julie waited with the cameraman until the rubble was reduced to a smoldering mass. While firemen still poured water on the interior, Julie saw two firemen in protective clothing go into the building. She walked over to the fire chief.

  “Do you know if anyone was inside?”

  “We have reason to believe that the owner was working late this evening. That car has been identified as his.” He pointed to a late model Buick sedan at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Any speculation on how the fire might have started?”

  “Not at this time. There’s no doubt that it was a chemical fire, but it’s my understanding that Mr. Chang kept a wide assortment of chemicals here at his place of business; I’m not suggesting arson. Our specialists will get on it right away. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Julie watched as the chief joined a fireman not far from what had been the front entrance of the building. The fireman appeared agitated and pointed to the ground. Then suddenly both men began to stomp their feet and hop backward. Julie moved for
ward to get a better view. “Get back!” The chief was screaming at her and pointing at the ground.

  At first Julie couldn’t see why they seemed so upset. The water ran in streams and blackened debris littered the parking lot. Steam rose from smoldering piles of beams from the roof. Hoses crisscrossed; some had been discarded in a tangle beside one of the trucks. Someone had thrown a black tarp the size of a queen-sized blanket over something by the door.

  Then all on its own, the tarp began to move. Up over the pile of hoses, down around a pile of soaked insulation. Little ripples would stretch the tarp out then it would bunch up again and move on in another direction. It looks alive, Julie thought.

  Oh God, it is alive. She, too, jumped and ran toward the lead firetruck. Cockroaches. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe more. A few strays were scuttling along the perimeter of the building before shooting across the parking lot into darkness.

  “Get the Orkin people.” The chief was now back in control standing on the running board. “Hose that area. Keep ’em contained if you can. That’s right, push ’em back.”

  The chief turned to Julie. “You know, you do this sort of thing long enough and you think you’ve seen it all. This is my twenty-fifth year, retirement scheduled for December 1, and then along comes another surprise. Who the hell would collect those suckers? Let alone keep ’em alive. What do you think he fed them?”

  Julie was saved dwelling on the care and housing of cockroaches by a yell from a fireman.

  “I need some help over here.” The fireman had emerged from the building and was standing by what had once been a door. “There’s some kind of basement under the floor in the main room. I don’t think it’s too big, but we’re going to need a pump to get the water out.”