. . .
When I opened my eyes, I was stretched out on the ground looking up at a dark-skinned woman with black hair that was blowing around in the wind. She was bundled up in a denim ranch coat with a wool collar. She was peering at me and saying something but I couldn't understand her words. I tried to sit up but a strong hand pushed me down by the shoulder.
She smiled at me and, in a thick accent, said, "Mother Mary has protected you, Señor."
"Huh?" I asked, not sure what she was talking about.
"Your car. It flew over the cliff. But you lift up your arms." She raised her arms above her head. "And the tree, it catch you." An older woman came into view behind her and smiled and nodded, saying something in Spanish.
The first woman continued, "The tree was like a mother who catches her baby. My mother and I, we see this and we say a prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe as my husband pull you down. You are very blessed, Señor."
I understood what she was saying but I didn't know why she was telling me all that.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wondering where I was and who those people were. They seemed very nice. I wondered if I had driven over the cliff—
Suddenly, the whole thing came to me, in a flash. I could see the truck in the rear-view mirror. I could hear the sounds of the engine as it protested against the shoving and the slamming. I opened my eyes and tried to sit up again. The strong hands pulled me down again.
"You must not move, Señor, you may have bones that are broken."
I felt up and down my body. Everything seemed to be in place. I said, "I think I'm fine." I lifted up slowly.
"Are you sure?" asked the woman.
I put my right hand behind my neck and felt there. It was sore but nothing was broken. I nodded again. "I'm fine."
Looking behind me, the woman said something in Spanish. A man came around and offered me his hand. I took it. It was thick and heavily callused. He pulled me up and nodded with a grin under a big mustache. He stood about my height, was thickly built, and had very dark skin but with light brown, almost luminescent eyes. Before I could help myself, I said, "Nacho!"
He grinned and nodded. "Sí, Nacho."
The woman, who was about a foot shorter than he was, looked at me oddly. "How do you know my husband's name, Señor?"
I smiled. "I don't. He looks like a friend of mine from Ensenada." I suddenly realized that was the voice I'd heard as the car was going over the cliff. Nacho had been dead for a couple of years but I'd heard his voice before. It was earlier that year when we were trying to rescue his wife. He'd talked to me in the same way, helping me aim my gun at an oncoming car and shoot out its tires before it could hit us.
Suddenly, overcome with everything, I started shaking. I looked down at my left foot. The shoe was gone but the socked foot was there. And it was cold.
"Where do you live?" asked the woman.
"I'm not from here. Can you take me into Carmel?"
She nodded. "Sí, we are going to Salinas. We will pass through there. Come." She began to walk towards an old red Chevy panel truck that dated back to the 30s.
The two ladies insisted that I sit on the passenger side of the truck while they sat on a pile of blankets just behind the bench seat. The bed behind them was full of chickens in cages who were squawking, but not as much as I would have thought they would. The truck smelled like chickens, but I also smelled something else sweet. I couldn't put my finger on what it was.
As we slowly drove north through the thick fog towards Carmel, I turned in my seat and looked at the younger woman. "Did you see what happened?"
She nodded. "A green truck passed us, going very fast, and then my husband slows down. He points to your car going over the cliff and we watch as you put up your arms." She said something in Spanish and all three of them made the sign of the cross.
"Did you happen to notice if the driver of the truck was a man or a woman?"
She asked a question in Spanish. The husband made a gesture with his left hand under his chin that made me think of a beard.
"It was a man with a black..." She paused. "I do not know the word in English. It is the hair that grows on the face."
"Beard?" I asked.
She nodded and said, "Yes, beard."
I said, "Thank you. How do you say that in Spanish?"
"What is that? Beard?"
"No, thank you."
"We say gracias."
I tried to repeat the word, much to everyone else's amusement. The man turned to me and nodded. "Welcome."
I smiled and said, "Thanks."
. . .
After a few minutes, I asked the younger woman, "Where do you live in Salinas?"
She smiled. "We have a small farm just south of town."
"What do you grow?"
"Oh, many things. Garlic, peppers, onions. For the restaurants. We have chickens and some cows."
"Do you have children?"
She nodded with a smile. "Yes. They are three. Carlos is the oldest. He is 13. Then there is Nancy. She is 11. The smallest is Antonio. He is 9."
"Are they in school today?"
"Oh, yes. The education, it is very important. My husband and me, we do not have much education. I want my sons to be doctors. Maybe Nancy will be a teacher. Or a nurse." She was beaming with pride.
I said, "Your English is very good."
She blushed and nodded. "Thank you, Señor."
"Much better than my Spanish."
She smiled and said, "Maybe if you practice?"
I shook my head. "I'm terrible with languages."
She laughed and said something to her husband in Spanish. He laughed and said, "Good morning. Good evening. How are you. Thank you. Welcome." The three of them laughed at that as the younger woman said, "Those are his words in English. He, too, is very bad with the languages."
. . .
As we'd been driving up the coast, my initial thought was to give them some cash, but I had a feeling that wouldn't be right. I knew the best thing would be to give their names to Marnie and have her come up with something that would be both useful and anonymous.
"What is your name?" I asked.
Putting her hand on her chest, she said, "I am Maria Vazquez." She then pointed to her husband. "This is Ignacio. Or, as you know, Nacho."
At the sound of his name, the man turned and gave me a grin. He really did look like Nacho, my Nacho. It was so strange. But it was oddly comforting, as well.
"And, this is my mother, Ana."
"Very nice to meet you all. I'm Nick."
Mrs. Vazquez said, "I have seen you in the newspapers. We are very honored to know such a distinguished gentleman from San Francisco."
I smiled. "Thank you." I reached for my wallet and pulled it out. "Can I pay for a tank of gas, since you gave me a ride?"
Putting out her hand, she shook her head. "No, Mr. Williams, it is our honor. We have seen a miracle. We have seen the protection of a soul by the Virgin of Guadalupe, of that I am certain." She said something in Spanish and the three of them made the sign of the cross again.
. . .
The red Studebaker truck was parked in front of the motel room when the Vazquez family dropped me off. After once again refusing any money, Mrs. Vazquez asked if I felt OK. I nodded with a smile and said it had been a pleasure to meet them. They invited me to their farm and I said I would come by when I could.
With that, they left.
I hobbled across the parking lot to the room and knocked on the door. After a moment, Carter opened the door. He was wearing his cotton draw-string pants, a sweaty white undershirt, and canvas shoes. When he saw me, he frowned and asked, "What happened?"
I walked in, closed the door behind me, kicked off my right shoe, and then pulled his face down to mine. I kissed him deeply for a long moment and then let him go.
He said, "Why do you smell like chickens and frankincense?"
I smiled. "That's what that was!"
"What are you
talking about?"
"I was just in an old panel truck with chickens in the back. There was a sweet smell I didn't recognize and that was it."
Carter walked around me and opened the door again. Gazing out at the parking lot, he asked, "Where's my car?"
I sighed. "It's in the Pacific Ocean."
Closing the door, Carter reached around from the back and pulled me in against his body. "What happened? Are you OK?"
I nodded and leaned back against his chest. "Yeah. Thanks to Nacho."
"Nacho?"
"Yeah."
. . .
We stood there, just like that, as I told him what I could remember about the accident. Once I was done, he pulled me over to the bed by my right arm. He sat down on the edge and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me tightly and pushing his face into my belly. As he did, I could hear him crying. I ran my hands through his hair and said, "It's OK, Chief. I'm fine."
He nodded but continued to cry. It was heart-breaking to listen to but I loved him so much and I understood. For some reason, I was feeling very matter-of-fact about everything but I knew it was exactly how I would have reacted if he had told me the same thing I'd just told him.
After several long minutes, he let me go and stood. He walked over to the phone and picked it up with his right hand.
"Hello, Mrs. O'Keefe? I need to call the Sheriff's Office, here in Carmel." There was a pause and then he said, "Thank you."
I watched him as he talked. He was facing the wall and I could tell that he was deliberately not looking at me. I walked over, leaned against him from behind, and put my arms around his waist. He was very tense but seemed to relax after a moment.
"Hello, this is Carter Jones. Is Deputy Forrester available?"
I rested my head against his back. As I did, he put his left arm over mine and held it tight.
"Ron? This is Carter Jones. Frank Hughes just tried to run Nick off the road about a mile south of Rocky Point Restaurant." A long pause. I could hear Forrester's voice but couldn't hear what he was saying. "Fine. We're at the motel. We both need to clean up but we'll leave as soon as we can and meet you down there."
Without waiting for a reply, he slammed the phone down and stood there, his left arm still holding mine in place. After a few seconds, he said, in a very low and very dangerous voice, "I am gonna murder that son of a bitch."
Chapter 15
Driving along the Roosevelt Highway
Monterey County, Cal.
Monday, November 14, 1955
Half past 3 in the afternoon
As Carter drove slowly through the dense fog, neither of us said anything. I was sitting as close to him on the bench as I could without getting in the way of the gear shift. He held my left hand in his right. As he drove, I noticed that, from time to time, tears would start running down his face. But he never said anything. He would only wipe his face with the back of his hand from time to time.
Once we passed the restaurant, I said, "There's a bridge ahead. It happened after the bridge."
He nodded and leaned forward, as if he would be able to see better through the fog that way.
We got to the bridge and found traffic stopped just beyond it. There was a man, not in uniform, who was holding up the traffic. Carter pulled the truck over to the shoulder and drove up on the man's left.
As he rolled down the window, the man looked at him angrily and said, "There's been a wreck down the road. Sheriff has things closed off for about thirty minutes. You'll have to wait here."
Carter said, "Deputy Forrester knows we're coming."
The man looked at Carter and then at me. "Mr. Williams?"
I nodded. "That's me."
"OK. Go on through. Sorry about that."
Carter waved at the man, put the truck in first gear, and slowly moved forward. After a few feet, we came upon a couple of men looking at the pavement. One was taking notes.
Carter pulled the car all the way off the road, killed the engine, and jumped out. As I got out on my side, one of the men asked, "Mr. Williams?"
I walked up to where Carter was standing and said, "That's me."
The man pointed up the road. "Deputy Forrester and Sheriff McCoy are up where the car went over. They're waiting for you."
We walked over to the side of the road and followed the edge of the asphalt in the fog. After a couple of minutes, I could hear voices but still couldn't see anyone. As we moved forward, a few hazy figures began to take shape. Suddenly, we were standing right in front of Forrester and an older man dressed in a blue suit with a black tie and wearing a cowboy hat. He was a little stout and had blond hair and bright blue eyes. They both looked up at us. Forrester nodded and asked, "How ya doin', Nick?"
I grinned. "Not too bad, all things considered."
The older man looked at me for a long moment. Without offering to shake, he said, "I'm Sheriff Jack McCoy. I understand you claim you were run off the road by Frank Hughes. That right?"
I nodded. "I was."
Crossing his arms, the sheriff asked, "How do you know it was Hughes?"
"It was a green 1949 Ford pick-up truck. It was slightly rusted just above the grill around the F and the O on the hood."
Forrester nodded. "That's Hughes's truck, Sheriff."
The older man waved his deputy away and asked, "What time did this happen?"
"Sometime after 1. I don't know the exact time."
"And you're sure you didn't just lose control of the car and are now claimin' someone pushed you off the road because you don't want the insurance company on your back?"
I laughed.
"Something funny about that, Mr. Williams?"
"I could buy a hundred of those cars tomorrow and it wouldn't make much of a dent in my bank account." I hated to talk that way, but sometimes it was the only thing to do.
A voice through the fog called out. "Sheriff!"
"Yes, Griffith. We're over here."
"We found paint marks on the trunk of the car." As the voice spoke, a man in a deputy's uniform suddenly appeared out of the fog. He was about 25 and shorter than me. He had black hair, brown eyes, and a scar on his chin. He was covered in dirt and mud. I assumed it was from scrambling up and down the cliffside.
"That so? What color?"
"Green, sir. Ford green, too, I'd say. Most of 'em are on the driver side on the trunk. Looks like something smashed in the trunk real good and then pushed the car from the passenger side as if the car or the truck was trying to shove the car off the cliff on purpose."
The Sheriff asked, "You find anything inside the car?"
"Two valises in the trunk. Harris and I brought 'em up in case you wanted to look through them."
"Griffith, this is Mr. Williams. That was his car and those are his valises. Why don't you bring them over here so we can return Mr. Williams's belongings to him?"
Deputy Griffith looked at me and nodded with half a grin. "I don't see how you're walkin', Mr. Williams. I was expectin' to find a mangled corpse down there."
I nodded. "It was that tree on the edge of the cliff. I grabbed hold of it and the car slipped out from underneath me. Somewhere down there, you'll find a shoe that it yanked off my left foot as it went over."
Griffith broke into a full grin. "It was sitting in the front seat, all by its lonesome. Harris and I were wonderin' about that."
Sheriff McCoy said, "That'll do, Griffith."
The man nodded and said, "Yes, sir. I'll be right back with two valises..." He looked over at me with a wink. "And your shoe."
Once Griffith had disappeared into the fog, the Sheriff said, "Well, I'm glad we got that worked out." He looked over at Forrester. "You get in your car and head over to the Williams house. When you get there, call Hollister and tell him to meet you there. I'll send Griffith and Harris in a few minutes. Then the four of you,"—he glanced at me and then Carter as he spoke—"and only the four of you, go over and arrest Frank Hughes for attempted vehicular homicide."
Forrester no
dded as the sheriff stalked off into the fog without saying anything else to either Carter or myself.
. . .
Once we were at the house, Forrester made his call and then asked to use the bathroom. Carter told him where it was as I decided to see if there was anything to drink in the big refrigerator. I was happy to find several bottles of Burgie. I popped the top off two of them and handed one to Carter.
We clinked our bottles and both chugged about half while looking at each other. Carter put his bottle down and then took mine out of my hand and put it down, as well. He pulled me in close and began to kiss me deeply, almost desperately.
After a couple of moments, he said, "I'm never gonna let you outta my sight again, Nicholas Williams."
It always thrilled me when he called me by my full name. I smiled up at him and nodded. "Good. I love you, Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones."
He ran his hand through my hair and said, "I love you, too."
Right then, I heard Forrester walk into the kitchen. "Don't mind me," he said. "All that lovey-dovey stuff is too weird."
Carter and I pulled away from each other. I looked over at Forrester, who was putting his hat on the counter, and asked, "How about a Coke?"
He nodded and said, "Thanks, if you don't mind."
I opened the refrigerator door as Carter said, "You oughta try that 'lovey-dovey stuff' sometime, Ron. It'll do you good."
I popped the top off the Coke bottle and handed it to Forrester.
He took a long drink, burped, and said, "I'll keep that in mind. You two gotta be cool, though, when Hollister gets here."
As he spoke, I could hear a car drive up outside. I shook my head. "We work with cops all the time. Including ones who don't like us or barely tolerate us. We'll be cool."
Right then, there was a knock on the door. We'd left it open for when the other deputies arrived.
"Mr. Williams?"
I called out, "We're in the kitchen, Mrs. Hughes."
As she walked in, she smiled wanly and said, "I was about to run up to Carmel. I saw that Deputy Forrester's car was here along with the house truck. I thought I'd drop by to see when I could start cleaning up this mess."
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 14
