Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2)
Page 10
“Girls take most things a guy says and rotate it a hundred and eighty degrees,” Ramsey said. “If you tell her you’ll call her later, what exactly does later mean? Because to a girl it means that night or tomorrow. And you… you’ll be thinking… eh, maybe after soccer practice or maybe next Tuesday. And she’ll be checking her messages every ten minutes and if it’s not your number on her caller ID, chances are she’ll ignore you next time she sees you.”
Adam scrunched up his face. “That’s dumb.”
“They operate on a first-come, first-served basis. If you tell them you’re going to call on Tuesday and don’t, and then she goes out on Friday and meets a new man… poof! You’re history.”
“Boys aren’t like that are they?”
“Depends. I could say to a woman, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ And what I actually mean is ‘I’ve heard all your dirty little secrets and I’d like to include myself in a few.”
Adam felt the chuckle deep in his belly and when it came up he doubled over like he’d never get up again. A hearty laugh through a wide open mouth.
Ramsey grinned and patted the air with his hand. “Better check your snare.”
Adam had forgotten about the snare. The branch was bowed slightly and swinging dead center was a rabbit in a noose. He pumped the air with his fist. Unhooking it, he felt a stab of pity as it flopped to the ground. But Ramsey was right there beside him, picked up that rabbit and loped off towards the tent. “Fill in the fire. We’re moving out,” he said over one shoulder.
Adam set off at a jog just to catch up with him. “Is it the rogue ranger?”
Ramsey coughed up a wad of phlegm and thought better of spitting it out of his mouth. “He’s tracking us.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
Adam brightened. “Like I know about the Anasazi and the Mogollon.”
“I guess.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Ramsey nodded as he folded up the tent, knee anchoring it to the ground.
“Can I call my mom?”
Ramsey stared at him for time and then lifted his chin. “Did you hear what I said? Ranger’s coming. And there’s not enough bars out here to use a phone.”
“But there might be… if we get to higher ground.”
Ramsey blew air through his nostrils, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s wait until we get to the village.”
“What village?”
“I would have driven there, would have turned off at 180. But I wanted to show you something. Something you’d always remember.”
Adam began to mentally run everything through in his mind, his father’s face, his father’s blood. It was possible he wasn’t dead and Ramsey was just plain lying. “When can I call her?”
Ramsey clenched his jaw and then rolled his bottom lip beneath his front teeth. “Don’t want that rogue ranger listening in. And he will. He’ll even trace it to your mom and go after her. You don’t want that do you?”
Adam shook his head. No, he didn’t want that.
Ramsey shouldered up the backpack and blew in his cupped hands. “Ready to lead. Ready to follow. Never quit,” he said, hooking the duffel over Adam’s shoulders. “That’s our new motto.”
Adam repeated it. He felt important carrying that duffel bag, felt a little uneasy too. He missed his mom, missed her voice. There was a strange whisper in the wind that afternoon and he stifled a sob, chest hurting a little more with each step.
He looked at Ramsey’s back and the rabbit that dangled from his belt. He was taller than his dad, shoulders straight and level, and tanned skin that seemed to stretch over a stocky frame. He was an athlete. Had to be. The top half of his hair was tied up leaving the rest to fall down to his shoulder and there was a certain curve to his cheek as he turned occasionally to check Adam was there.
It was the mystery of it all that nipped at Adam’s subconscious. He memorized the shape of Ramsey’s upper lip, even the slightly crooked front tooth. The way he drank, ate, slept. All afternoon he thought about it until the sun went down. They were headed west.
God… it’s me… Adam. I know you’re up there with dad watching, but please could you send a hundred police officers. Quietly though, because Ramsey’s got a gun and he’ll use it if he has to. I don’t want mom to worry. I don’t want her to cry―
Ramsey stopped suddenly, held up his right hand and turned a half circle. He herded Adam alongside with one arm, eyes narrowed on something in the shadows.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered.
Adam could barely swallow. He heard a twig snap, heard the rustle of leaves. Smelled the smoke of a nearby campfire. He looked up the slope at a regiment of pine trees, brown and gnarly like an old man’s whiskers. He saw a flash of light between them, a coyote running perhaps? Heart hammering, he thought he was going to choke.
He heard the pitter-patter of rain and deep pulses in his ears. Ramsey must have heard it too, eyes rolling back and forth with a wildness to them. Gun out in front, safety off.
Adam looked to the left and the right, didn’t see Ramsey slip behind a cluster of chokeberry. It all happened so fast. He felt the arm across his chest, another across his mouth and he could smell the gagging stench of filth. Felt himself being dragged backwards and away from Ramsey. Couldn’t scream, couldn’t shout, just a whimpering that came from the back of his throat. On and on smashing through a dark puddle of water and up a steep bank.
He was yanked into the darkness and that’s what terrified him. Damp soil and the scratch of spiny roots through his hair and cheeks.
Stop… please…
But the man wouldn’t stop. Kept tugging at him, turning him around in circles, wrapping him in twine and then pushing him against something hard.
Adam couldn’t feel his hands or his legs and he wanted to scream. But it was the scratching sound and the flare of a match that stopped him. A single flame illuminated the face of an old man whose chin was thatched with red whiskers, skin whiter than a dog’s bone.
EIGHTEEN
The sky was beginning to darken and there were amber streaks above the Sandia Mountains. The crest was now covered in powdered snow and all Malin could think about was a boy out there in the wilderness with a collar turned up against the cold.
It had been another long day of phone calls, internet searches and interviews. She could have done with a rush of cold air, good clean air, especially with Temeke fogging up the office with a half smoked cigarette he’d found under his chair. The office was almost empty except for four officers downstairs and the impact Sargent who had latterly gone out to get them a sandwich.
She watched the phone, wondered when forensics would confirm the voice on the Trader tape with the Oliver tape. Since they didn’t have a suspect, they didn’t need a court order. But the chief of the voiceprints unit in the forensics lab in Chicago was one of Malin’s heroes. Audrey De Becker made you feel like you were in the presence of royalty. She had more than twenty-five years in forensic science, including the US Secret Service and the Internal Revenue Service. Malin wondered whether she should stand and salute when she took the call.
For the past four hours she had studied the Ringmaster murder books from cover to cover, tacked all those grisly photographs to the cork board and said nothing in between. And now Temeke was on the phone, saying one word over and over again.
“Yep… yep… yep...”
He finally put the phone down and pursed his lips.
“Talk to me,” Malin said.
“That was Officer Running Hawk. Found a broken compass. Looks like our Adam’s been leaving crumbs again.”
“How long has it been there?”
“He reckoned three or four days. Said they found some flattened grass, possibly a tent. There was a forked branch low to the ground. Great for sitting in and doing your business. And they found that business hidden in a shallow hole. Two types.”
“How can they tell?”
“And the dog?” She asked, knowing Temeke wouldn’t have asked.
“He didn’t mention any paw prints.”
Malin wanted to pump the air, but it wasn’t over yet. The news gave her a rush of hope, a feeling they were finally getting somewhere. “He might still be alive, sir.”
“If he is, then something’s changed.” David looked up at the map and frowned. Then looked at his watch. “Forensics should have called us an hour ago about that voice comparison.”
Temeke’s mouth was pursed around a cigarette and he was trying to balance on the two back legs of his chair, only the wheels prevented any acrobatics. “Better hope Adam’s not popped to the eyeballs on drugs.”
She had a chance to see what a real detective looked like close up and this one, she thought, was solid, tough and sour, head tilted back and eyes closed for a moment.
“Mrs. Oliver,” Temeke murmured. “It’s something deep down inside, one of those distant voices you ignore and then wish you hadn’t. Why do you think the kidnapper decided to pull off a ransom? And why did he make contact with the victim’s father?”
Malin noted Temeke didn’t refer to the kidnapper as the Ringmaster. “Because Adam’s father is a prominent figure.”
“It’s not like there’s blood and teeth all over the floor. He was a bloody bad shot.”
“Well, there’s two dead pilots and a missing boy.” Malin flapped a hand to dispel the smoke. “You just don’t like toffs. Isn’t that what you call them?”
“Mrs. Oliver said when she called 911, she saw the time on her cell phone. Not the clock,” Temeke muttered.
Any significance was lost on Malin. All she could think about was Mrs. Oliver in her scrubs in the operating theater on Sunday night. Never even knew her husband was bleeding on the floor at home and her own child was tied up in a truck with a madman and headed for who-knows-where. She tried not to think of Adam’s face… his screams… Choked back a few tears, wasn’t going to show herself up in front of Temeke.
“Remember the graffiti outside the Mayor’s house?” he said, sighing deeply and flicking ash into an empty coffee cup.
Malin remembered the case. Three years ago, someone sprayed graffiti on the Mayor’s limo, the pavement outside his front gate and then climbed over the wall and did the same thing on his front door. “Mark Hogan. Nutter. Hates Republicans. Doesn’t have the brain capacity to pull off a kidnap like this.”
“What about the time when Oliver traveled to D.C. in his private jet and they had that bomb scare. All flights were grounded.”
“Douglas Cordova, former press secretary. Still inside.”
“He might have a friend on the outside, Marl. Prisoners do, you know.” Temeke screwed up his eyes and stared at his computer. “Mayor Oliver’s got an impressive résumé. Even had an ex-wife.”
“She died four years after they married,” Malin said, staring at her own computer. “Breast cancer.”
“Eagle Scout, Navy SEAL, Harvard. Seems our Mayor’s done some great things. Homeless initiatives, higher graduation rates for high school students, economic opportunities. They’ve estimated savings in the millions. You only have to look at the I-25 project and the crime rate. And what’s more, Albuquerque is the second highest area in terms of economic growth. He ought to be the best mayor we’ve ever had.” Temeke went quiet and then, “There’s some on the west wall now.”
“Some what?”
“Graffiti. Happened last night. Says ‘Murderers work here. Thanks to the effing DCPD.’ And beneath it, ‘I’m still not loving the police’. Do you think everyone hates us?”
“Some people don’t trust cops.”
“I don’t trust cops.” Temeke let out a big sigh. “Fergus the bleeding flasher. At least the dirty old bugger didn’t trip the alarm at two in the morning. It happens when you pee against the glass.”
Malin was glad Temeke had spent the night at home, glad he was showered and shaved and in a better mood than he had been in days. Glad his mind was ticking over every detail and every tiny speck of dust.
The wind dropped and everything was quiet. Even the evening sky glowed a misty orange behind the building and there was that nagging feeling the office belonged entirely to them.
“Where’s Hackett?” she said and then wished she hadn’t.
“Kept up all last night listening to Fowler’s squeaky voice. Apparently,” Temeke said, taking the last hit from that tiny cigarette, “he was supposed to be combing the woods around 3265 Forest Road with a few of his old cronies when agent Anderson found him behind a tree with Gloria Pacheco, you know, from special weapons. Anderson told the sod he was fiddling with evidence and wrote him up.”
Malin waved the inappropriate comment away with one hand and still blew out a few short snorts. She needed the break just as much as he did. “How does Fowler know Hollister?”
“They’re both captains, love.”
What? Wait… did he say captain? How like Temeke to lob that little grenade. “Hollister’s a captain now?”
“Got promoted three weeks ago.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” Temeke blew a large smoke ring towards the ceiling and dropped the cigarette in his coffee cup. He squinted at the thermostat. “Bloody budget cuts. Never mind me freezing my ass off over here. I need coffee.”
“Sounds like you’ve had enough rocket fuel for one day.”
The phone rattled on her desk. It was Flossy from Fingerprinting. The only prints on Adam’s cell phone were his. Malin ended the call and groaned as she relayed the bad news to Temeke.
The honk of Sarge’s car cut through the silence and Malin sauntered over to the window. The SUV nosed its way around the dumpster and came to a stop in its usual parking spot. The red brake lights glowed an angry red in the darkness before fading to black.
“He’s here,” she said.
Sargent Moran took his time climbing those stairs, knocked on the door and gave Malin a steaming bag of hamburgers. He gave Temeke a curt nod as he stood in the doorway.
“You look happy, Sarge,” Temeke said. “Has Fowler resigned?”
“No, it’s better than that. Forensics just called about those voiceprints. There’s a match.”
NINETEEN
Adam tried to move his hands, but the bindings held fast and bit into his flesh. His feet were tied at the ankles and the best he could do was wriggle his toes. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and urine, and it made his stomach heave.
The old man sat cross-legged on the ground, sharpening a knife and muttering. Occasionally, he looked up at the opposite wall, a lattice of wooden strips, where two large meat hooks hung and where dark pools of animal blood had collected at the footing.
Adam saw the bones then, curved and ribbed like a spine and vertebrae stacked in a neat little pile. There was a large wooden mallet and a coil of rope with snaps and grabs, and a tattered shirt hanging on a hook with a red and white patch on the sleeve. New Mexico Game Patrol it said, and underneath the word, Ranger.
Adam wanted to scream, wanted to shout. But it was those dark stains on the latticework, evidence of a bloody suffering that stopped his mouth. Four rifles were propped up in the corner, antique by the look of them and hopefully too old to fire. He couldn’t see a thing through the wattle and wondered how dark it was outside. Whether the clouds had covered the moon, whether Ramsey would ever find him in the darkness. He wondered why the old man muttered, why he sharpened that knife. Why those arms of stringy muscle shook sometimes.
There was another scent, bitter and thick like the smoke from a campfire. Ramsey was bound to smell it and come running. Unless there were other rogue rangers out there skinning the big man this very minute.
Dread c
rept through Adam as he hung there, heart beating faster than usual, breaths ragged and quick. The old man must have heard all that anxious panting because he turned slightly, looked like he was half sick with pity. Then he puckered his face into the most serious of expressions as if Adam needed a different type of comforting he couldn’t provide.
Somewhere beyond the daub and wattle that separated him from the outside world, Adam heard a shrill whistle. The old man heard it too, tensed and struggled to stand. His joints popped as he found his feet, back hunched a little towards the sound. He was wearing a long woolen coat, the type military men wore and his beard was tangled with leaves.
“Coyotes,” he said, raising a hand that didn’t appear to have a thumb. “They can smell yer blood.”
He glanced one way and then another as if catching an unfamiliar scent. And then he shook his head as if he knew it was man-made. There was someone out there.
Adam let out a pent-up breath and then held in another. He’d use it soon to scream. But not yet. Not until the old man was far enough away to let that scream count.
The old man crept towards a burlap drape, knife out in front, trembling like a dowsing rod. He seemed to angle his ear to another sound, a click this time like the locking in of a magazine.
Adam took shallow rattled breaths, working himself to a scream. “Ram-sey!”
Something crashed through the wattle six feet from where the old man stood and bringing with it the sudden flush of moonlight.
“Get off my land before I hit yer!” the old man said, knife-hand extended like an eagle’s claw. There was a trail of saliva on that big red beard and a cough wheezed through jagged teeth.
“Your land?” Ramsey’s face was knotted with amusement as he stood next to Adam. He waved his gun to show the man what he was about, leveled it right at him. “Boy’s mine.”
“Gimme the boy. I’ll pay you plentee.”
“What with?” Ramsey said, squeezing the trigger. “It’s not like you’ve got a clink of change in that old coat.”