Apache Country

by Frederick H. Christian

  “And that was all he said? Nothing else? A name, anything?”

  Her eyes met his without any guile that he could detect.

  “It wasn’t like a conversation. Just them telling us what they wanted. It was very … tense. Especially when Mother got angry and told him how cruel it was of him to treat us so badly after we’d once been … well, you know, like family. He said he was sorry, but the way things were, he had no choice.”

  “And then they left.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they give you any indication of what their plans were? Where they were going?”

  She frowned. “David – he said something about getting help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just got an impression he meant friends. Someone in Riverside.”

  Another two-edged sword, McKittrick thought. She might be telling the truth. Then again not. It had always figured Easton might indeed try to get to Riverside to seek help. On the other hand, he might have told her that so as to disguise his real intentions. He would know how difficult it would be to get past the police roadblocks, especially with the Apache in tow. That might explain why they had doubled back to disappear into the mountains and then maybe try for Las Cruces or even Albuquerque.

  “When will your mother be back?” he asked, abruptly changing tack.

  “She won’t. She was going on down to Riverside.”

  It all sounded perfectly plausible. But the thin worrying maggot of distrust was still squirming inside McKittrick’s brain. He couldn’t put out of his mind the fact that Easton and Ellen Casey had once been close, and that Kit Twitchell had once been his girlfriend. Wasn’t it much more likely they had agreed to help him, and if that was so, wouldn’t he also have told them what had really happened out on Garcia Flat?

  Maybe.

  But on the other hand, would Kit Twitchell be sitting talking with him as calmly as this if she knew the truth?

  Everything – everything – depended on establishing now whether Kit Twitchell knew the truth or any part of it. If she did, certain steps would need to be taken; if she did not, others. He pulled his chair closer to hers and leaned forward confidentially. One thing he was sure of was his own skill as an interrogator. If she was lying, he could and would break her.

  “I know how hard all this must be for you,” he said, putting syrup on it. “Especially after such an ordeal. But do you think you could go over the whole thing for me just one more time? Tell me what they said, what they did, whatever they told you. From the beginning.”

  Kit nodded and gave him a tentative smile. “The phone rang about midnight,” she began.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Olin McKittrick swung his silver-grey BMW back on to the blacktop leading from the Casey ranch to the highway, and pushed a button on his carphone to dial the Sheriff’s Office. When Apodaca came on the line, he spoke without preamble.

  “I just got through talking with Kit Twitchell,” he said. “She says Easton and the Indian were at the ranch last night. She and her mother gave them food and clothing. They left before sunup, back to the Reservation, probably.”

  “You think she was telling the truth?”

  “Why should she lie?”

  Apodaca made no reply, and McKittrick felt a frisson of annoyance run through him. The sheriff’s silence was his way of being insulting without saying a word.

  “She going to come in and make a statement?”

  “Tomorrow,” McKittrick said. “Ellen Casey call you?”

  “About an hour ago. From the Stevens chosa up in Brio.”

  Rancher Norm Stevens had a beautiful ranch on the lower reaches of the Rio Lindo. With typically ironic understatement he always referred to it as a Mexican dugout house.

  “You know she was at the ranch when Easton came in.”

  “Yes. She told us pretty much what you’re telling me now.”

  “Keep her watched. Twenty four seven.”

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “I’ll explain later,” McKittrick said. “Our priority now is to locate Easton and the Indian.”

  “We had a couple of calls. Ironheel’s been seen on the Reservation.”

  “Think they could be going to try for Las Cruces or even the Feebs in Albuquerque.”

  “Not Easton, “Apodaca said. “He’ll try to get back here.”

  “He must know we’ve got patrols everywhere. Why would he take that kind of risk?”

  “I don’t know why. But you can bet your ass risks won’t stop him. Let me tell you about Easton, counselor. He never gives up.”

  “Then the sooner he’s taken down the better,” McKittrick said coldly.

  “That may not be easy,” Apodaca said. “Especially if he gets help. And I got a hunch Kit Twitchell or her mother could be giving it to him.”

  “There’s no way they can help them, man. Ellen’s in Riverside, Kit’s at the ranch. Easton and the Indian are the hellangone up in the mountains. Quit worrying about it.”

  “Quit telling me to quit worrying,” Apodaca said stubbornly. “It don’t hurt none.”

  “Easton won’t have a chance if he comes anywhere near Riverside,” McKittrick said coldly. “So start pushing buttons, Joe. Full-scale search up at Mescalero. State Patrol, National Guard, everybody we can round up. And I want it, like, yesterday.”

  “Case you’ve forgotten, counselor, the Reservation is Federal property,” Apodaca reminded him. “We can’t just raise an army and march in. You want a search up there, I’ll have to call the FBI.”

  “Okay, oaky,” McKittrick said impatiently, “call them. Is Ed Hatch still in charge at Albuquerque?”

  “Last time I looked.”

  “Tell him we need him. Right away. Sooner. You’ll have to push him, he’s Bureau-conscious. Don’t let him drag his feet. And make sure he interrogates Ironheel’s sister. She’s sure to know something.”

  “Good you reminded me,” Apodaca said sourly, and McKittrick ticked up another debit in his mental account book.

  “You’d better call Gerzen, too,” he said, “tell him what’s going on. I’ll be back in the office around two. If you need to kick ass, Dick Reardon, the chief of the FBI regional office in Denver is a friend of mine.”

  “I’ll try it my way first.”

  “Always possible that might work,” McKittrick said, allowing himself a little smile as he got in a veiled insult of his own.

  “Anything else?” Apodaca said, and McKittrick noted with satisfaction the trace of anger in the sheriff’s voice.

  “Yes,” he said, relishing his own power. “Get a fucking result.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  As soon as it got dark enough, Easton hot-wired a four-door Toyota Camry sedan in a parking lot on North Pennsylvania. It figured any car parked this late wasn’t likely to be missed until morning, more than enough time for him to do what he had come to do.

  It felt strange to be back in the city. The night breeze carried the sharp stink of hot asphalt and gasoline fumes, the sidewalks felt hard and unforgiving beneath his feet, and he had never before been so conscious of traffic noise and the garish clutter of street lights and signs. Without being aware of it, he had become acclimated to the immense silences of the mountains, the starry emptiness of the night sky.

  It was a balmy night, overlaid with the never-ending drone of cicadas. He turned the air-conditioning up a notch and drove over to North Lea, parking the maybe fifty yards up the street from the Apodaca house. The sheriff’s Dodge Dynasty was parked in the driveway; he had always preferred an unmarked car to the SO’s easily-identifiable black Chevies with their roof light arrays and silver-starred doors. Racking back the seat, Easton poured himself some coffee from the thermos Kit had given him, and settled down to wait.

  He wondered where Ironheel was right now. If he had done what he said he intended to do, he would be working his way back southwest toward Pajarita Mountain and the Mescalero
Reservation. He would have little difficulty eluding his pursuers alone on his home ground, Easton thought. Oddly, he missed him.

  He thought about Kit. Still struggling to come to terms with the murder of her father and her son, she was now haunted by the fear that it might have been her husband who brought that DVD home. And if he had, what that would mean.

  At 9:34 Joe Apodaca came out of his house wearing the blue-striped seersucker jacket and dark blue pants he always wore off-duty. He got into the Dynasty and reversed out, turning north. Easton watched his tail lights brighten briefly as he braked for College and turned right. He waited another ten or fifteen minutes to make sure Apodaca wasn’t just running an errand, then left the car and walked across the street to the house. He could hear music playing inside and recalled that Alice always had the radio on, a kind of musical wallpaper.

  He rang the bell and after a moment or two, heard a movement in the hallway behind the door.

  “Joe?”

  He recognized Alice’s voice, the querulous tone.

  “It’s not Joe, Alice,” he said. “It’s David Easton.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the door opened just enough for him to make out Alice Apodaca’s face backlit by the fluorescent light in her kitchen. Her eyes were wide and he caught the sweet reek of bourbon.

  “Sweet lamb o’ God, David, what you doin’ here? They’re looking all over—”

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Alice,” Easton said urgently.

  “You crazy?” she said, glancing up and down the street. “If Joe—”

  “Don’t worry about Joe,” he told her. “Just let me in.”

  She frowned. He could almost hear the wheels in her fuddled brain turning. Then the safety chain rattled and the door swung open.

  “You all right Alice?” he asked, closing the door and following her into the dimly lit living room. It was a long time since he had seen her. She would be in her mid-fifties now, he reckoned, but she looked a lot older. She was a little over medium height, narrow shouldered and wide-hipped, with big hands and feet. Dark eyes, thick black shoulder-length hair and a swarthy complexion combined to give her a mestiza look, emphasized by the gold loop earrings she almost always wore. She’d put on weight. And there were dark smudges like bruises under her eyes that might mean she slept badly. Or cried a lot.

  “You shun come here, David,” she said, turning to face him. “None o’ this’s got anything to do with me—”

  As if she had suddenly realized what she was saying, she closed her mouth like a trap, glaring at him angrily. He stared back at her, surprised by the revelation.

  “None of what, Alice?” he said.

  She shook her head, her eyes avoiding his. As if she already knew everything he was going to say. And maybe more, he thought, surprised by the realization.

  “Iss about Joe, right?” she said again. “Wish case I got nothin’ a say.”

  She shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it, throwing back her head to almost defiantly blow smoke at the ceiling.

  “Damn radio,” she said. She went into the kitchen, switching off the radio with an angry flick of her wrist. While she was there she sloshed about three fingers of Wild Turkey into a heavy whiskey glass on the worktop, dropped in a couple more ice cubes, then turned around and faced him, defiant and pathetic in the same moment.

  “Sheers,” she said.

  Okay, he thought. Shock tactics.

  “Joe killed Robert Casey, Alice,” he said, hitting her with it flat and brutal. “Shot him down like a yellow dog. And stood by while another man cut Adam Casey’s throat. Altogether he’s responsible for seven deaths. And I can prove it.”

  To his surprise her expression didn’t alter. She walked across to the window and stared out at the pecan tree in the yard. Or maybe at nothing. He waited tensely, the way you wait for the next flash after lightning strikes close by. And then he realized: she knows.

  “Alice,” he said softly. “You already know, don’t you?”

  She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and then, walking the way people do when they’ve drunk a lot and are trying hard not to let it show, she got the bottle from the kitchen, a defiant look in her dark eyes.

  “You gonna join me?”

  “Alice! Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  “I heard,” she said. The ice clinked in her glass as she took another drink.

  “Then why aren’t you surprised?”

  She sat down opposite him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the table without once taking her eyes off him. She got a cigarette out of the pack and lit it from a matchbook. The pathetic defiance in her expression, the masked pain behind her eyes, all sent him the same message: she knows. She knows.

  “Takes a lotta s’prise me these days,” she said.

  “Well let’s see if this does it,” he said. “Ellen Casey found a pornographic DVD in her grandson’s closet. Nasty, hardcore stuff. And I’m pretty sure it’s what got Adam and Robert Casey killed. I brought a copy with me, hoping you’d take a look at it and tell me if you recognize anyone on it. But I’d just be wasting my time, wouldn’t I?”

  “Young guys,” she said, tilting back her head again to blow smoke at the ceiling. “Mess’cans, right?”

  “My God,” he whispered, “you do know.”

  She remained silent for long moments, watching him with the eyes of a wounded animal that sees the hunter coming for the kill.

  “You’re like him, I can see it in your eyes. Jussa stupid lush, right? How would a stupid lush like her know anything? Well, think again, pally. I’m smart, see? Smarter’n him, thass for sure. He thought he di’n’ have to worry. I could see him thinking, look at her, doesn’ know shit from Shinola. But I was liss’nin,’ see? Liss’nin’. Watchin’ when he din’ know. An’ putt’n’ it all together.”

  Her voice rose up the scale.

  “Putt’n it all t’gether. Li’l bit here, li’l bit there. Papers he lef’ lying around. Calls on the answer m’chine. Lossa stuff. Years, years. All stashed away. He doesn’t know. But I know all about his dirty little game. All of it.”

  He stared at her, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

  “You knew what he was part of? And you never did anything about it?”

  “Who’s I gonna tell?” she snapped angrily. “The sheriff?”

  “You could have called me.”

  “Figured you’s prob’ly innit too,” she said wearily. “An’ thass why you stopped comin’ round.” She shook her head. “Use a’be friends,” she said, her voice turning maudlin, her words a little more slurred than before. “Use’a say you were th’ neares’ thing we’d ever have to a son.”

  “Things changed, Alice,” Easton said.

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Susan. She came along, he hadda take second place. Di’n’ like that. Di’n’ like her, either.”

  “It was mutual,” he said. “She told me not to trust him and she was right. He’s gone bad, Alice. That’s why I came here. I want you to help me stop this thing. Put him away.”

  She shook her head heavily. “Un-hunh. Alice is looking after numero uno, nob’dy else.” She tapped the side of her nose with a forefinger and squinched up her eyes. “Fireproof, thass me. All written down. All in a safe place.”

  “Where?”

  She gave him another fat drunken smile and shook her head again. “See? You think I’m shupid. Well, you’re wrong, see? Not telling anybody. ’f I learned anything at all livin’ with that bassard, iss keep ya mouth shut.”

  She got up, staggering a little and went out to the kitchen to pour herself another drink.

  “Haven’t you had enough?” he said.

  “They haven’t made enough,” she said defiantly over her shoulder. “And they never will.”

  She slouched back into the living room, a slack smirk playing around her wide lips. So now you know, it said. And what are you going to do about it?

  “You never used to drink, A
lice,” he said. “What the hell happened?”

  “You really wanna know? Then I’ll tell you. So I don’t have to think, thass why! Think about my screwed-up freakin’ life in this no-hope freakin’ town! Think about my husband coming home and climbing into my bed after wallowing in that ... that filth!”

  She downed half the drink in one swallow. Easton realized she must be very drunk indeed by now. If he could just find the right phrase …

  “You must be worn out,” he said gently. “All this.”

  “Too damn right,” she said, and tears filled her eyes. “Too damn right.”

  “Just tell me one more thing,” he said. “Then I’ll go. Tell me where they make the movies.”

  “Issa big deal, Davy,” she said, slapping her thigh with her hand. “They got it all sewed up, all the right palms greased, ev’body shtumm. They use the Ranch, Davy. They make ’em at the Ranch. What ya thinka that?”

  He was stunned. Boy’s Ranch was the largest and most visible rehabilitation facility for young offenders in the Pecos Valley. Some of the State’s most highly-respected civic leaders were on its advisory board.

  “Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Gotcha, huh?”

  “It would take a lot more than two of them to keep the lid on something like that,” he said. “Big money. Who else is in this?”

  Alice shook her head. “You don’ wanna know, kiddo,” she told him. “Stick your nose into that, you’ll wind up in a hole inna desert.”

  He changed tack. “Tell me about the German. What’s he got to do with all this?”

  She looked up sharply, her eyes full of venom.

  “That bassad,” she said venomously. “Might think Joe’s a bassad, but he’s twenty times the bassad Joe is.”

  “You know him?”

  “Bassad, sure I know him. He’s the one brings in the pickups.”

  Easton frowned. “Pickups?”

  “’s’what they call’m. Pickups. Pick ’em up, move ’em on when they’re done with them.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, being deliberately dense, hoping to keep her talking. “Pick who up where?”