At the side of the house was a high wall with a locked, wooden gate. He climbed the wall and walked around the house to a covered patio. Charcoal in the barbecue pit was still warm. He stood to one side of a sliding patio door and gave it a push. The door slid open. He made a quick scan, saw nothing, and stepped into a large combination kitchen and dining area. He moved quietly to the living room. He saw a body, dropped to a prone position, and killed the flashlight.
There were no sounds in the house, but he waited several minutes before shining the flashlight at the body again. It was Fred Utley and he was very dead.
Kerney did a fast room search of the house before returning to the living room and turning on the lights. From the color of his skin, Utley hadn’t been dead for very long. For some reason a chair had been moved in front of Utley’s body and then replaced in its original position. The carpet fibers had been partially fluffed up to erase the imprint of chair legs. There were slight signs of abrasions on the wood finish, and a wadded-up piece of paper on the cushion. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a gasoline credit card receipt charged to Sara’s account.
Utley’s death was no suicide, and Sara had been here, tied up, and then taken forcibly away from house. She was alive when she left but could be dead and lying in a ditch by now. His pulse quickened. He used the telephone in the bedroom to call Andy Baca.
THE DOCTOR AT FORT BLISS looked Eddie up and down and asked him suspiciously where in the hell he had been. Eddie told him Juárez, and the doctor made him strip and wash with a disinfectant while he called to verify that Eddie was really an investigator assigned to White Sands Missile Range. Flat on his stomach, covered with a hospital gown, Eddie watched while the doctor worked on him. The nerve blocker dulled the pain but not enough to keep the surgery from hurting. After Eddie was sewed up, the doctor bandaged his arm while a haggard-looking nurse gave him a tetanus shot and a sheet of written instructions on how to care for his wound.
Eddie had left his personal car at Fort Bliss after dropping Isabel and the baby at the bus station, and an MP sent to fetch his travel bag stood by the door watching him dress, holding Eddie’s gear.
“You want me to take you to your car?” the MP asked.
“Not yet,” Eddie said, reclaiming his handgun, wallet, and badge case from the bag. He stuck the holstered weapon into his belt, put the wallet and case in his back pockets, and motioned for the MP to follow him.
Outside the hospital, Eddie searched Benton’s car while the MP waited. It didn’t take long to find out where Benton had stayed in El Paso. The ashtray contained a room key and a bunch of motel receipts. A workout bag in the backseat held a smelly sweat suit, a towel, a jockstrap, and a very choice 9mm handgun, with three extra clips. Eddie turned the gun and clips over to the MP and asked him to have the vehicle impounded and the weapon checked. The MP called for a tow truck and gave him a ride to his car.
The motel, in a barrio bordering an industrial section of the city, was a fleabag. A row of smokestacks from a nearby smelter dwarfed the houses and the businesses along the strip. Three hookers waved to him as he drove into the parking lot.
Eddie let himself into Benton’s room. It was a box with a bathroom and closet jutting out of one corner. It smelled of years of cigarettes and cheap booze. He started his search and quickly found out that Benton liked guns. Under the pillow on the bed was a Colt .38 revolver, and in the bathroom a toiletry kit contained a .22 Saturday-night special. The single dresser held a Gideon Bible and nothing else. Benton kept his clothes in two large canvas duffel bags, clean clothes in one and dirty clothes in the other. He probably didn’t like the cockroaches getting into his wearing apparel, Eddie thought, as he watched one dart out of the wastebasket. The only thing in the trash can was a greasy brown paper bag containing food wrappers and a cash register receipt from the Caballito Bar.
He took another tour through the room before leaving and found a laptop computer and printer in a carrying case on the floor by a phone jack.
Next door a hooker cooed and moaned in time with the squeaking bedsprings. He grabbed the computer case, locked the room, and stood in the parking lot. Just down the street, on the opposite corner, the neon outline of a rearing pony flashed on and off above the entrance to a bar. Eddie smiled to himself, put the computer in his car, and walked to the Caballito Bar.
The bar, filled with workers from the factories, bustled with activity. Eddie found room at the bar and ordered a cerveza. When the bartender brought it, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill and asked if he knew a gringo named Benton.
The bartender, a man with a hook nose and dark circles under his eyes, took the bill, made change, and said he didn’t know anybody by that name. He walked away to serve another customer before Eddie could ask another question.
The wall over the bar held a velveteen painting of a conquistador and another painting of a señorita wearing a lace mantilla. A hand-printed lunch menu was tacked between the two pictures. Eddie called the bartender back and asked if a gringo had been coming in recently to buy take-out lunches.
“Oh, that guy,” the bartender answered, taking another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie’s hand, plus the eighteen dollars in change on the counter. He stuffed the money into a tip jar and lowered his voice. “I don’t know his name.”
The Freddy Fender song on the jukebox ended and the bartender stopped talking. A man at the pool table dropped more quarters in the slot and started punching buttons. The music blared; a mariachi song. Two female shift workers at the end of the bar started singing along. “If it’s the guy I’m thinking about,” the bartender continued, “he comes in to buy take-out. Always orders a hamburger and fries. He doesn’t like Mexican food.”
Eddie described Benton to the bartender.
“That’s him.” The bartender walked away to fill an order. Along the rear wall, a small audience watched the pool game. Behind them was a mural of wild mustangs galloping across a mesa. When the bartender finished pouring drinks, Eddie motioned for him to come back.
“Did you ever see this guy on the streets?” Eddie inquired.
The bartender plucked another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie’s fingers. “Once. I saw him over by the self-storage units.”
“Where is that?”
“Down by the factories. You can’t miss it.”
“What was he doing when you saw him?” Eddie asked.
The bartender smiled. “He was driving through the gate. Probably checking on his property. Everybody who rents space there keeps a close eye on their merchandise. The city can tear down Smeltertown, but they can’t stop the contrabandistas.”
Eddie thanked the man, finished his beer, and went to the telephone next to the jukebox. It was time to call Kerney.
ANDY BACA watched his officers work. They had cordoned off the driveway and brought in high-intensity lights to help with evidence collection. An officer photographed the heel marks and tire imprints, while another searched Utley’s car. Inside, the crime scene unit lifted prints, vacuumed rugs for fibers and trace evidence, and photographed the body. On the patio a deputy sifted through the ashes in the barbecue pit.
Kerney was inside with Andy’s captain of detectives, giving a statement. The medical examiner arrived with two paramedics in a county ambulance and started unloading a gurney. The sound of another motor came up the road. The driver parked behind a patrol unit, got out, and walked over to him.
Andy nodded when Major Curry drew near. “Tom,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” Curry replied. “Are you sure this cop of yours has his story straight?”
“I believe him,” Andy replied, “and the evidence backs him up.”
“He thinks Sara was abducted?”
“It looks that way. I’ve got a statewide APB out on her vehicle, plus El Paso and west Texas. Kerney’s worried that she may have been taken somewhere and killed.”
“Jesus,” Tom Curry snorted. “I’ve got a patrol covering her qu
arters in case she turns up. Do we have a suspect?”
“No, but another wise guy surfaced in Juárez,” Andy said.
“Who is it?”
“Kerney didn’t tell me, but he’s probably on ice in the Juárez morgue.”
“Did Kerney take him out?”
“No, one of your people did. A Corporal Eddie Tapia. Kerney says the corporal saved his life.”
“Where is Tapia?” Curry asked.
“In El Paso. He took a knife cut on his arm. Nothing serious. He’s probably finished getting sewed up and is backtracking on the perp.”
“Where’s Kerney?”
Andy nodded at the front door as Kerney stepped outside the house. “Be gentle, Tom,” he advised. “The man has had a shitty night, and his attitude stinks right now.”
Curry watched Kerney limp down the walk to a pickup truck and open the door. His suit was dirty and spattered with dried blood.
Curry and Andy walked to him.
“You’re Curry?” Kerney asked, looking at the uniform and the insignia of rank. He opened his bag, searched for a clean shirt, and pulled one out.
“I am.”
“Good. I need to talk to you. Eddie Tapia just called. He found where Benton was staying, and he has a lead on a rented storage unit. I’m going down to hook up with him.”
“Greg Benton?” Curry asked.
“That’s right.” He slipped out of the suit jacket, undid the tie, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped it off. The scar on Kerney’s stomach was nasty, as bad as any combat wound Curry had seen. Kerney threw the dirty clothes into the cab of the truck and put on the fresh shirt. “You know who he is?”
“I know who he’s supposed to be,” Curry replied.
“Is he CIA? Defense Intelligence? NSA?” Kerney asked, stuffing his shirttail into his pants.
“I don’t know,” Curry answered.
“He belongs to somebody,” Kerney said. “Check it out.”
“Of course. Are you assuming Utley was part of it?”
Kerney got in the truck and slammed the door. “He had to be.” He smiled at Andy. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Let me send somebody with you,” Andy pleaded.
“I can handle it,” Kerney retorted. He drove away.
“I need to make a phone call to Washington,” Curry said, frowning at the receding taillights.
“Be my guest,” Andy replied.
DELEON’S MEETING with Francisco Posada was short and to the point. Posada promised him all the required facts about Kevin Kerney, and he would see what could be learned about Eddie the jorobado. Most certainly Don Enrique would know by morning where Kerney lived, so he could be found and killed quickly.
Carlos was due to return with a progress report on the search. DeLeon waited patiently at his table, watching the action on the floor. Luisa, his diversion for the weekend, still occupied her time gambling with his money at the monte tables. He looked forward to his weekend with her. She hoped for marriage and eagerly demonstrated her talents, but he saw no future in marrying any woman. Eventually, all of them grew tiresome.
Dominguez waddled in through the back door, looking very pleased with himself. His belly heaved in exertion as he stopped in front of DeLeon.
“Señor?” He was out of breath.
“What is it, Dominguez?” DeLeon replied.
Dominguez opened his hand. “I thought you might like to have this.” He held out a wallet. “I took it from the dead man.”
“Put it on the table,” DeLeon said, without interest.
Dominguez did as he was told. “Señor?”
“What is it now, Dominguez?” DeLeon said testily. Mother Mary help me if I ever need a real policeman, DeLeon thought to himself.
Dominguez unbuttoned his shirt pocket, took out a plastic card and a key, and handed them to DeLeon. “I also found these on the body.”
DeLeon’s indifference faded as he looked at the card. It was a keyless entry card to a storage compound in El Paso. He turned over the metal locker key. A number was stamped on it.
DeLeon smiled. “How much money was in the wallet?”
Dominguez’s grin faded. “Four hundred dollars, patrón,” Dominguez admitted.
“Is it securely in your pocket?”
“Yes, Don Enrique.”
“I will double it. You have done me a service.”
Dominguez’s grin returned, filled with gratitude. “I am glad you are pleased.”
“I am. Now go and wait for Carlos. Send him to me as soon as he arrives.”
Dominguez left, almost running. DeLeon turned the card over in his hand. Truly, could it be so easy? Was he holding the key to a fortune that did not have to be bought and paid for? When Carlos arrived he would be sent to investigate. Perhaps Eddie, the charlatan jorobado, had brought him luck after all. If true, it would make an amusing story; one he would enjoy telling.
DeLeon’s laugh was loud enough to make some nearby customers pause and look in his direction.
BENTON’S CAR WAS not in the motel parking lot, and there was no response when Meehan knocked at the door of the room. Sara was on the floor of the backseat of the Cherokee, gagged and covered with a blanket. The heavy traffic of hookers with their customers made sticking around unwise. Meehan decided to cross the border into Mexico, tuck Sara safely away, and come back to look for Benton.
Meehan bypassed the direct route to Juárez and crossed the border at Santa Teresa. The road to Casas Grandes, a dirt washboard that intersected a main highway, was lightly traveled. He turned east toward Juárez before reaching the highway, staying on farm roads and skirting the few little settlements south of the city. To the north, the runway lights of the Juárez airport came into view, shimmering in geometric rows. When he was parallel to the Rio Grande, Meehan cut over to a paved highway that passed through several small villages. He turned off at two barren ridges that loomed up to a plateau above the river bottom. The road dwindled to a set of ruts in the dirt and dropped suddenly toward the river. His headlights lit up crumbling walls, old foundations, and deteriorated stone fences. Across the river, low-lying west Texas mountains showed a wrinkled, windswept face to the night sky.
The ruins of the hacienda, protected in a hollow against the ridge, surveyed a narrow strip of bosque at the banks of the Rio Grande. Meehan stopped in front of a rock stable that encircled a stone granary. He found a flashlight in the glove box, pulled Sara out of the vehicle, and removed the gag.
Sara looked at the granary. Chiseled stone steps twisted around the outside of the tower. At the base, an entrance wide enough for a horse and wagon stood like an open black mouth. The house, an old hacienda undergoing restoration, was roofless. Scaffolding surrounded the walls, and a parapet had been rebuilt with new bricks. Freshly peeled vigas—beams for the ceiling—were secured to the walls, and rough wood framing defined new openings for doors and windows.
“This is interesting,” Sara said. “Is it a new theme park?”
Meehan smiled. “It’s more like a nature center. Let me show you around. There’s one attraction I think you’ll really like.” Sara looked pale and dispirited, in spite of the attempt at humor. She had softened up nicely, Meehan thought.
He turned her by the shoulders, pushed her against the hood of the car, and cut the rope around her ankles. She spun, kicked for his groin, and missed, catching him on the shin instead. He slapped her in the mouth with the butt end of the flashlight. She fell against the Cherokee, stunned but conscious.
Meehan grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her neck. “You think you’re a tough little bitch, don’t you?” he snarled.
“No,” Sara answered. She could feel the blood in her mouth. “I’m not a bitch at all.”
“Move, cunt.” He pushed her along in front of him, through the remnants of a kitchen, past a crumbling adobe fireplace, to a stone staircase that descended to an underground room. Sara balked at the top step, and he jabbed her in the kidney with the flashlight. She stumbled
forward, Meehan holding her by the handcuffs to keep her from falling. Bags of concrete on pallets, milled lumber, and construction equipment filled the underground room. DeLeon’s restoration project was further along than Meehan had realized. It meant he would need to deal quickly with Sara to avoid any chance encounters with the construction crew.
He prodded her through the large room, past a pile of tarpaulins and rags, to a massive wooden door anchored in the bedrock by thick iron hinges. He raised the heavy latch and pulled the door open. The air, cool and stale-smelling, rushed out. Sara recoiled, so he jabbed her again in a kidney to force her to move.
“Get in,” he ordered, pointing the beam of the flashlight into the pitch-black room. He pushed her to her knees and lit a kerosene lamp that hung from the low ceiling. “Stand up and turn around,” he said when the lamp was burning.
Sara did as she was told. The rock walls of the tiny room were uneven and black with soot. The jagged ceiling was inches above her head. The lamp cast a pale glow. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” she asked.
Meehan nodded and poked at some rotting boards with the toe of his shoe. A dozen insects scurried into view.
“Scorpions?” Sara asked.
“Big ones,” Meehan confirmed, lifting the lamp off the hook and setting it on the ground. “Heat attracts them. Especially body heat. Some of them drop from the ceiling. Keep your chin up.”
She stared at Meehan with loathing.
He stepped back, swung the door shut, and threw the latch. “I’ll try to get back before the lamp runs out of fuel,” he called to her. “If not, keep yourself entertained.”
“Screw you,” Sara replied.
She barely heard Meehan’s receding laughter as he walked away, her attention riveted on the ceiling. The thought of scorpions falling on her made her shudder. She saw an insect dart from under a board and squashed it with her boot. She killed several more before she realized that she was crying.
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