Track of the Scorpion

by R. R. Irvine

  Since Drysdale didn’t want the aggravation no matter who they were, he escaped his apartment through the back door.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gus Beckstead had worn out his welcome at the San Juan Saloon years ago, but the rules had been waived for the victory party, at Mayor Ralph’s insistence. Even so, Beckstead hesitated in the street out front; he’d become accustomed to drinking by himself. Besides, he had no intention of letting the mayor get him drunk so he and his councilmen could trick him out of his God-given rights to that B-17. He’d promised Grace, his lady, a love-boat cruise if things worked out, maybe even a honeymoon, if she’d have him.

  “I don’t think we ought to be celebrating just yet,” Beckstead told the mayor.

  “Relax,” Mayor Ralph said. “Cibola’s already a winner no matter what. I talked to the Journal“s editor not ten minutes ago. Mark Douglas filed his story and our B-17 will be front-page news tomorrow, Monday morning at the latest.” He clapped Beckstead on the shoulder. “We’re on the map now, no matter what we do with your B- 17.”

  Beckstead looked up at the San Juan, which, like almost everything else in Cibola, had a Spanish flavor, complete with a trowel-marked stucco facade and a red tile fascia at the roof line to hide the tar paper beyond.

  “Come on,” the mayor said, applying enough pressure to start Beckstead moving toward the door. “Everyone’s inside waiting to buy you a drink.”

  “I’m not selling out until I know what it’s worth,” Beckstead said.

  “You’re the boss.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  Beckstead allowed himself to be herded inside. Boilermakers were already set up on the bar, where the mayor’s tame councilmen, Ferrin and Latimer, were waiting with expectant smiles. Beckstead smiled right back. They didn’t fool him. Besides, he could drink them all under the table if it came to that.

  Mayor Ralph leaned his belly against the bar and quickly distributed the brimming shot glasses. “To Cibola,” he toasted. “And the Scorpion.”

  Beckstead made sure the others swallowed their whiskey before he did. He took the same precautions with each of the next half dozen rounds. By then, Ferrin and Latimer had taken up residence in the toilet, being sick.

  “Now that we’re alone,” the mayor said, taking care to enunciate each word, “it’s time we got down to business, Gus. Let’s face it, to make money out of that plane, it’ll need restoring. That costs money, big money. Wouldn’t it be better to sell out now and take what profit we can get?”

  “You saw the bullet holes,” Beckstead said. “That’s going to get me on all the talk shows, maybe even Oprah. That reporter said so.”

  “What happens then?”

  Beckstead was still thinking that over when the mayor slid down the front of the bar, unconscious.

  Smiling, Beckstead staggered to the toilet and opened the door. Ferrin and Latimer were still on their knees, their heads half hidden by the porcelain bowl.

  “Like I said,” Beckstead told them, “I can drink you all under the table.”

  Outside, the prospector took a deep breath of night air and nearly threw up. That settled it. He was too drunk to drive. What the hell; he’d slept in the truck before. Gracie wouldn’t worry; he’d told her he was going on a toot with the boys.

  His truck was parked down the block in front of the Feed and Seed, which was dark like every place else in town except the saloon. He was inside the truck, with the door closing behind him and wondering why the overhead light wasn’t working before he realized someone was there ahead of him.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “Your fairy godfather,” a man said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Try me. Make a wish.”

  Beckstead rubbed his face, hoping to sober himself enough to think straight. “You’re here about the B-17, aren’t you?”

  “Ellsworth Kemp, investment counselor,” the man said, reaching up and switching on the truck’s interior light. “Here’s my card.”

  Beckstead couldn’t focus on the raised lettering. He shook his head sharply. That was boilermakers for you. He tucked the card in his pocket. “I always heard you got three wishes.”

  “That’s genies, not fairy godfathers, but I’ll talk to my client and see what we can do.”

  “Oprah” started to come out of Beckstead’s mouth, but he clenched his teeth just in time. No use sounding like a fool, or wasting wishes either, for that matter. This guy looked like money, even under the truck’s ceiling light. His fancy suit was like something you see on TV, not in a place like Cibola. He looked fit, too, probably from working out with one of those expensive exercise machines you see advertised on TV. Beckstead revised his estimate. Kemp didn’t look like money; he looked like big money. Beckstead’s picture in the National Geographic or People, or even an appearance on Oprah, didn’t count for much against that kind of wealth.

  “I want to be rich,” Beckstead said.

  “And famous,” Kemp added.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Because you’re famous already. Why else would I be here? You know where I was this morning? New York City. Just about to get myself laid when I get this phone call from my client. „Kemp,’ he says, „have you heard about this man Gus Beckstead? He’s found just what I want, all the way out in New Mexico.’ So the next thing I know, I’m on an airplane with a briefcase full of cash.”

  Kemp retrieved an aluminum case from the floor of the truck and laid it on his lap. “We want to buy your land and the B-17 both.”

  “I’ve been working that claim for years.”

  “Rich men don’t have to work.” Kemp inserted a key into the case’s lock and opened the lid, exposing stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  Beckstead’s mouth dropped open. That case had to be three inches deep and it was full to the brim. “Jesus Christ, how much is in there?”

  “More than you can spend in your lifetime.”

  When Beckstead reached for the case, Kemp snapped the lid closed and said, “First I want to see what I’m buying.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Why wait to be rich?”

  Why indeed, Beckstead thought. Besides, if anyone was crazy enough to pay that kind of money for a shot-up airplane and a claim that paid only a bare-bones living, Gus wasn’t going to give him time to have second thoughts.

  “I’ve been drinking too much to drive,” Beckstead said, “but if you’ll drive, I’ll be happy to show you the way.”

  Nodding, Kemp locked the briefcase and handed it to Beckstead for safekeeping. Beckstead clutched it against his chest as they drove out of town.

  A mile beyond the Conejos Bridge, Kemp suddenly turned off into the desert.

  Beckstead jerked upright, realizing he’d nodded off for a moment, dreaming of all the things his money could buy.

  “This isn’t the turn. We’ve got a long ways to go yet.”

  The truck dipped into a dry wash and came to a stop.

  “This will do fine.” Kemp left the parking lights on and got out of the truck.

  Beckstead followed, bewildered, but still clinging to the briefcase. “I thought you wanted to see my claim?”

  “I think you mean my claim.” Kemp switched on a flashlight and laid it on the truck’s hood, then took a paper from his coat and spread it on the metal next to the light. “This is a bill of sale, made out in advance. All you have to do is sign it.”

  Beckstead held up the case. “You haven’t told me how much is in here.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you understood. That money’s not yours to keep. You’re going to give me the land and the B-17, out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “This.” Kemp drew a pistol from inside his coat and held it against Beckstead’s head.

  “Fuck you. You pull the trigger and that claim is still mine.”

  “As of now, you’re quite right.”

&n
bsp; “You damn betchya.”

  Kemp put away the gun and took out a pen, which he laid on top of the bill of sale. “Please, as a favor, Gus, sign the paper.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that final?”

  Beckstead threw the case at Kemp and made a run for it, scrambling up the wash. But he lost his footing and collapsed in pain after only a few steps.

  “Goddamned boilermakers,” he muttered, clutching his ankle. Only then did he feel the blood and realize he’d been hit from behind.

  “I found this tire-iron in the back of your truck,” Kemp explained as he brought it down on Beckstead’s knee.

  Beckstead screamed; his leg muscles spasmed.

  “I’m not going to carry you back to the truck so you can sign that paper. You’ll have to crawl on your own.”

  Panting, Beckstead breathed, “Please.”

  “They all beg me before it’s over, you know.”

  “Before they sign?”

  “Before they die,” Kemp said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kemp checked his watch. Two in the morning. He was well ahead of schedule. But then Gus Beckstead had been no challenge at all. Of course, he’d keep that information to himself. Let the boss think you’re overworked, that was his motto. Overworked and indispensable.

  He surveyed the site one more time, then inventoried his own belongings. Everything was in order. Gus Beckstead was now a statistic, one of those drunk driving fatalities that don’t rate more than a couple of paragraphs in the obituary column. Broken up the way he was from the crash, the tire-iron marks wouldn’t show at all.

  Satisfied, Kemp crossed Conejos Bridge and headed for his rental car, which was parked at the motel. He didn’t meet a soul or see a single car moving on the lonely desert highway.

  Before entering the motel’s parking lot, he stopped to listen carefully, but there was no sound and no sign of life. He smiled. That lady archaeologist was in for the shock of her life tomorrow morning, if indeed she lived that long. That would depend on the phone call he had to make in—he checked his watch again—twenty minutes.

  Inside his room, Kemp unwrapped a Milky Way and began to chew eagerly. What would psychologists make of his need for sweets after a successful assignment? Blame the whole thing on his mother, no doubt, though the plain truth was he had a sweet tooth. But he never indulged during the job itself, because a misplaced candy wrapper was just one more thing to worry about, one more mistake waiting to happen.

  As soon as he finished the Milky Way, Kemp began doing push-ups, working up a sweat and counting off repetitions silently to himself, burning off the calories.

  At two hundred, he wiped himself dry with a towel and then used his cellular phone to link with the CMI satellite. The scrambling system wasn’t absolutely secure, or so said the computer nerds, but they“d yet to break it. Even so, Kemp would be careful what he said. Besides, Leland Hatch preferred it that way, innuendo instead of frontal assault.

  Hatch’s voice was always a surprise, sounding as if he was in the same room instead of a continent away.

  “I have the bill of sale,” Kemp said. “The land is now in my name. I’ll present my claim Monday morning and take possession.”

  “I’ll have one of our lawyers there tomorrow morning. Now, tell me about your client. What exactly did he know about that airplane?”

  The direct question surprised Kemp. “Only what he saw. That it was shot up and had crashed, and that there were bodies still inside.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “There was nothing more to get. He was dry, wrung out by the time I finished with him.”

  “And the archaeologist? What does she know?”

  “She has an identification number from the tail. Is that important?” “That’s been dealt with already.”

  “She’s practically next door. Say the word and I’ll wring her dry, too.”

  “I’ve taken steps to keep her otherwise occupied. If that fails, well make other plans. Now, what about the trucks?”

  “They’ll be here Monday morning.”

  “I want them there in time to coordinate with our lawyer tomorrow afternoon.”

  “They’ve got a long way to come.”

  “Do your best, then. Is the woman working tomorrow?”

  “Beckstead didn’t know. Do you want me to stop her if she tries?”

  “Don’t bother. I can’t see that any more damage can be done in such a short time.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Nick indulged herself Sunday morning, ordering hot-cakes and bacon, while her father and Clark Guthrie stuck to oatmeal. Mom Bennett had opened the Zuni Cafe an hour early, because of the full house at the Seven Cities Motel. The cafe was filled, with Elliot’s students lining the counter. Yesterday’s new arrival in town, a man named Kemp, had to share a booth with three locals wearing their Sunday best. With that much body heat radiating into such a tight space, the Zuni’s air conditioner shimmied constantly as it fought a losing battle.

  The outside temperature, Nick figured, was already well over eighty. Tomorrow’s forecast called for a slight cooling trend. If that held up, she and her crew ought to be able to clear the fuselage entirely. So today, she could relax with a clear conscience, put her feet up, and maybe read one of the paperback novels she’d brought along on the dig.

  “We found some bones yesterday,” Elliot said as he added brown sugar and raisins to his cereal.

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  “Split open so the marrow could be sucked out.”

  “Homo sapiens soup,” Guthrie added with a wink.

  “No, you don’t,” Nick said. “I’m taking the day off. No cataloguing, no digging, no nothing.”

  Elliot was opening his mouth to protest when Mayor Ralph stormed through the door, slamming it behind him, and made a beeline for their booth. He grabbed the lone available chair and bellied up against the end of their table. Then he leaned forward and spoke breathlessly, “We just found Gus Beckstead at the bottom of Conejos Wash. The old bastard drove that wreck of a truck of his right through the bridge railing and broke his fool neck. Jesus, you don’t want to see what’s left of him.”

  The mayor’s breath reeked of stale whiskey. His hands shook and his bloodshot eyes started Nick blinking in sympathy while her mind raced. With Beckstead dead, who had title to his land and to the Scorpion? The last time she’d heard from the mayor, he and his council were in favor of selling off her plane. If that happened, all her work would have been for nothing.

  Hold it, she told herself. What the hell was she thinking about? That plane was an inanimate object, a thing. Gus Beckstead had been alive and working right beside her only a few hours ago.

  “Considering the way we were drinking last night,” Mayor Ralph went on, “Gus was crazy to be driving. I couldn’t even walk.”

  Mom Bennett arrived with coffee for the mayor, took one look at his eyes, and condemned him with a shake of her head before moving on to other customers.

  Nick let out the breath she’d been holding. She still had time to complete her examination of the Scorpion. No buyer, even the most avid collector, would want the plane until the bodies had been exhumed.

  The mayor sipped his coffee and shuddered. “Considering the way my stomach feels, I hope this stays down.”

  “This may sound callous,” Nick said, “but what happens to Gus’s land now?”

  Elliot snorted. “That’s my daughter. When it comes to airplanes, she’s got a one-track mind.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” the mayor said. “You see that stranger over there?” He indicated yesterday’s new arrival at the Seven Cities Motel. “He calls himself Ellsworth Kemp and says he’s Gus Beckstead’s sole heir, a distant cousin or some damned thing. He was up with the chickens this morning and knocking on my door loud enough to wake the dead. Says his lawyer is arriving later today and they intend to take possession of Gus’s claim immediately.”

  “Did you explain the situa
tion?” Nick said. “Did you tell him who I am and what I’m doing out there?”

  “Hell, yes. I told him that me and my council were partners with Gus. I showed him the paper we signed. You know what he said to that? That he’d see me in court.”

  “I’d better talk to him.”

  “Tell him we don’t want the land, just the plane. Tell him we’re willing to share if that’s what it takes. Anything to cut our losses.”

  Nick slid out of the booth and walked across the cafe to where Kemp was sitting.

  “Could I speak to you for a moment?” she said.

  “I was just leaving.” Kemp stood up and put money on the table. “I know who you are, Ms. Scott. I know your reputation. But I’m not about to surrender any of my rights until I know what I have.” He walked out.

  Nick was so stunned by his attitude she let him go without saying another word. When she reported the conversation to the mayor, he swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “That’s it, then,” he said. “We’ll have to eat our expenses.”

  “Has anything been filed in court?” Elliot asked.

  “Gus hasn’t been dead more than a few hours. Besides, it’s Sunday.”

  “So technically nothing has changed.”

  The mayor raised his shoulders in a careful shrug. “Goddamn, I wish Gus had told me he had money-grubbing relatives.”

  “Ownership isn’t important to an archaeologist,” Elliot said. “Would you have any objections if the three of us went out there today and did some work, at least until the lawyers arrive?”

  “Go to it, as far as I’m concerned. Take that reporter with you. The more publicity the better, I say.” The mayor pushed back his chair and eased to his feet, grimacing. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see Mom about some bicarb.” Walking stiffly, he disappeared in the kitchen.

  “Let’s go,” Elliot said. “Before it gets too damned hot.”

  “What about your Anasazi soup bones?” Nick asked.

  “No rush,” Guthrie said. “They’ve already been waiting a thousand years.”

  When they reached the Scorpion, Mark Douglas agreed to pitch in, too, despite his bad leg. With the four of them working, they quickly shifted the tail enough to pry open the main fuselage door. One look inside and Nick breathed a sigh of relief. Sand and dirt had seeped in over the years, but no more than a few inches of it. Otherwise, the fuselage was accessible, though the aluminum skin had partially buckled in a few places. She was the first inside the stifling plane. Light filtering through the cannon and machine-gun holes illuminated the interior, revealing bodies lying side by side. They’d been partially eaten by burrowing rodents but were in good shape by archaeological standards, their remains mummified by the desert climate. Their uniforms were disintegrating but still recognizable.