ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  "This is Tepusquet Canyon," Barnard said. "We've got just a few miles to go, but it gets rougher."

  They turned off onto a forestry road. Pavement gave way to rutted hard pack. Barnard barely slowed. The car launched from rut to rut. The grating sound of rock against metal came often.

  The arroyo narrowed to the width of the car, then climbed the side of a bluff. The earth fell away on the driver's side. The front wheel drive patrol car spun its tires often on the steep grade. The corners were tight and blind. Barnard never slowed.

  "Is this a one way road?"

  "No."

  "Just asking."

  The slope eased and the road straightened out. They entered a grove of trees, darker now. Red strobe lights flashed up ahead. Barnard skidded to a stop. A California Highway Patrol SUV blocked the road. Beyond it was a gate.

  As dust settled around their car, a state trooper unraveled himself from the front seat of the SUV. He stood, taller than Zack expected, big boned, long legged. He walked unhurried to the car and leaned down to peer in Barnard's window. Two huge hands rested on the sill. An opal pinkie ring glittered in the flashing red lights.

  "Hello, Chief."

  "Hey yourself, Dom."

  A craggy face dropped into view and hard eyes came to rest on Zack.

  "Any new developments?" Barnard said.

  "Not since we notified you." The eyes stayed on Zack. "We got a whirlybird on the way with the crime boys. Rick Malden is at the scene––you'll want to talk to him."

  "Malden. That's good." Barnard nodded toward the SUV. "We'll head on up, then."

  Dom kept his grip on the windowsill. "Who's this?"

  "Dominic Antonio, meet FBI Agent Zack Tolliver. He's in town to talk to the college kids. I'm showing him how we work out here."

  "This ain't no FBI case."

  "He's just a guest, Dom, just a guest. Nothin' official."

  The face moved out of Zack's sight, but the hands still didn't move. Barnard's gaze stayed on the trooper, there seemed to be a silent exchange.

  "Okay, then," Dom said, after a minute.

  The hands disappeared from the window and Dom walked back to the SUV. Wheels spun, dust kicked up, and the vehicle moved out of the way. Dom climbed out, walked to the gate, pulled it open. He gave them a mock salute as they passed.

  "Dom didn't approve of me, seems like," Zack said, as they drove on.

  "Just doing his job," Barnard said. "Dom's a good man."

  The road clawed out of the basin along a rivulet, up a narrow twisty gorge. Then it leveled out and they were in a meadow of waving grasses studded with white and gold flowers. They encountered stately pines in scattered groves. As they passed among them Zack breathed in their fresh smell. The road climbed on, not so steep now.

  "Almost there," the Sheriff said.

  They wound around a large sweeping turn and the road vanished. They were at the top of the ridge where the road ahead dropped back down the other side. To the left was a dirt track guarded by a metal forestry gate. On the right loomed a high bluff. Several vehicles were log-jammed into the small space. There was even a horse trailer.

  Sheriff Barnard nosed the patrol car in behind the trailer. They scrambled out. The cooler fan for the engine sounded loud in the forest stillness.

  "Let's go. It's Shank's Mare from here," Barnard said. He opened the back door and hoisted out a backpack.

  Zack had started up the dirt track to the left.

  "Whoa!" the sheriff called. "We're not going that way. Over there's our trail." He gestured toward the steep bluff.

  Zack turned to look. A tiny path edged its way up the near vertical face. "You're kidding me."

  The sheriff laughed. "Wish I was. But that's the only way to get where we're goin'."

  Zack looked at the path, then the horse trailer. "They took a horse up there?"

  "Not a horse––a mule." The sheriff bounced his backpack up onto his shoulders and walked to the trailhead. "We're both gonna know exactly how that mule felt in about ten minutes."

  The way was steep, but not as bad as it looked from below. Switchbacks at critical spots made all the difference. The men reached the ridgeline in the ten minutes that Barnard had prophesied. They paused there to catch their breath and look out over the valley.

  "That there is Rattlesnake Canyon," the sheriff said, and swept his arm toward the void. "From here you can see how the old road hugs the far canyon wall all the way down. The only way to get anywhere on this side of the canyon, unless you drop off the cliff, is drive part way down that road and walk across on an old burro path." He grinned at Zack. "If you can find it, that is." Barnard stood, hitched up his pack. "A marijuana grower down there can see you coming a long way off."

  "Is there a grow down there?"

  "Probably." Barnard gave a tight smile. "There's a new one starts up here every year. We know they're down there somewhere, but it's a lot of land to cover."

  Zack peered down. A vertical cliff fell away a hundred feet to a slope blanketed with oak trees and chaparral. It was wild and desolate country. No wonder the marijuana growers felt safe.

  "The only way to surprise 'em is to drop a rope down the cliff from this side, but you gotta know where the grow is to know where to drop it," Barnard said.

  The path led them along a narrow ridge crest. Zack felt on top of the world, with a jumble of ridge tops and valleys spread below him to one side and the cliff edge to the other.

  "Is that how we'll get down there?" Zack said. "On a rope?"

  "Yep."

  A sudden whop-whop startled Zack. A helicopter rose from nowhere and hung above the ridge. Dust kicked up, grit stung Zack's cheeks, he covered his face with his hands. In a moment the copter moved beyond the ridge and hovered over the chasm. Zack could hear the tinny squawk of a radio over the roar of the rotors.

  Barnard dropped his pack and walked to the cliff edge. "This'll do," he said. He pulled a coiled rope from his pack and a mesh bag of gear. He passed a belt harness to Zack.

  "You know what to do with that, I'm sure."

  Zack reached for it. "If I don't, the US Government wasted a lot of your tax dollars."

  The sheriff doubled a long sling around a sturdy sapling and set up a rappel. After a final check of his setup, he backed off the edge. "See you below."

  Zack waited and watched the rope stretch and jerk at the cliff edge. It slackened and he heard a faint call. Zack took a bight of rope, looped it through the rappel device, set up and backed off. It was a short rappel of less than 80 feet, only a dozen feet of it came free. He landed softly on low underbrush next to Barnard.

  The sheriff gave him a wry smile. "Bit of a surprise, that undercut?"

  Zack nodded, grinned back. The rotor noise was louder now. The helicopter settled lower, 100 yards beyond them.

  Barnard clipped the mesh bag to the rope. "Leave the gear," he shouted. "If we can't hitch a ride up with the helicopter, this is how we'll get out."

  They dropped their harnesses and Barnard led the way down the slope to a well-worn path, easy to follow along the cliff face.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The body was a dark mound in the center of a circle of trampled marijuana plants. The area was a maelstrom of activity. Zack saw figures move among the trees. Above him a man dangled from the helicopter while another man knelt in the open bay door and guided his descent. Still another man knelt by the body. The whomp of whirling blades smothered the men's words and the whoosh of blasted air bent the slender marijuana plants around the victim.

  Zack followed Barnard over to the body. The kneeling man saw them and stood. He was tall and gaunt, with weather-wrinkled features. The National Forest emblem on his dark green jacket identified him. The ranger stuck a hand out to Barnard.

  "Glad to see you, George," he said, shouting over the rotor noise.

  Barnard nodded and shook the hand. He leaned toward Malden's ear. "This here is FBI Agent Zack Tolliver," he said. "Zack, Rick Malden."


  "FBI here already?" Malden said, and reached for Zack's hand.

  "Not what you think," Zack hollered.

  Malden broke away to go help a man out of copter lift harness.

  Zack took the moment to study the victim. A short stocky man, he lay on his back. He wore jeans, huaraches, a soiled brown sweatshirt with a hood fallen away to reveal black curly hair and a deeply bronzed face. His eyes were open, staring up with that look of surprise Zack often saw in men who met death unexpectedly, small gashes where birds had been to work. There was a single round hole in his forehead.

  Malden came back leading the other man. The helicopter began to move away, conversation became easier.

  "This here is Bruce Darby, from the state trooper crime unit. Bruce, you know George. This here is a friend of George, FBI Agent Tolliver."

  "Call me Zack."

  They shook hands all around.

  Darby scanned the area around the body and set down his case. "Another cartel blowup?"

  "Seems like it," Malden said.

  "The wildlife has been at him," Darby said. "Been here a while."

  The men looked at the face and at rents in the sweatshirt around the abdomen, and nodded.

  "We think he's been here a couple of days," Malden said.

  Darby nodded his agreement. "Without a closer look, I'd say overnight, probably most of yesterday. Who found him?"

  "A couple of hikers." Malden smiled at their reactions. 'Yeah, they were way off course."

  "Not much question what killed him," Barnard said.

  "Small caliber." Zack looked around at the green plants stretched down the slope. "Quite the operation here."

  Malden grunted. "This is nothing. Sometimes the size of grows up here can rival the vineyards down below."

  Zack knelt among the flattened plants. He saw droplets of dried blood here and there on leaves. His eye moved along and came to a small pool of blood, now tacky and black like tar on the brown earth.

  "He was shot right here where he lies," Malden said. "No signs of a struggle. Execution style."

  Zack nodded in agreement. "I'd say the amount of blood is consistent with a single gunshot wound to the head with a small caliber weapon."

  Barnard walked a wide circle around the body. He stopped on the downslope side and bent to study the ground. "I see footprints coming and going," he said. "Looks like some kind of sneaker."

  "The victim is wearing sandals," Malden said. He peered at the soles. "Not much tread on 'em."

  Barnard nodded. "These prints must belong to the killer."

  Zack went to Barnard and knelt to study the footprints.

  "The victim was shot from close range, maybe eight to ten feet," Darby said, back at the body. "We might find the shell casing around here."

  Zack stood and walked away along the prints another yard. Then he turned, faced the body, made a mental calculation. He came forward a foot and a half, turned, and walked straight out to his right, eyes to the ground. Six feet away he bent down and picked up something shiny, held it up. It was a shell casing.

  The men stared.

  "How the hell did you find that?" Malden said.

  "From the size of the bullet hole in Manuel's head, I guessed he might have been shot by a Glock," Zack said. "It's a handgun easily obtained and in general use." Zack shrugged. "Anyone who knows a Glock knows they eject to the right somewhere between six to ten feet, depending on the recoil."

  Malden just stared.

  Barnard grinned. "That's why I brought the man along."

  "The killer approached Manuel to about here––" Zack stepped forward and stopped "––then shot him, like you said, execution style. The victim never moved from that spot. It's as if he knew his killer and had no fear of him."

  "That's the way I read it," Malden said.

  "Then the killer walks back the way he came...this way."

  Zack turned and followed the footprints among the marijuana plants. Everyone but Darby followed him. No one seemed to notice that Zack had taken over.

  They emerged from the plants at a perimeter path, trampled hard from use. Zack squatted, studied the ground in both directions, made his decision and turned right. Ten yards along the path brought them to a pair of tarps slung between trees, disguised from above with black netting. More of it lay in a pile nearby and rolls of thin black irrigation tubing were stacked among the trees. Beneath the shelter of the tarp they found a sleeping bag, partially unrolled. A duffle bag erupted with unwashed clothing. The rear of the shelter must have been the kitchen––a small gas camp stove on a crate, a cooking pot next to it. Food packages, drink boxes, cans, matchboxes littered the area. A crate held fertilizers, bug and rodent repellents, Miracle Gro, and tins of chemicals. Beyond the tarp's shelter they saw the tools of the grower trade piled on the ground––a rake, hoe, shovel, ax and pruning shears.

  The men studied the camp and the ground around it.

  "Just the one guard, do you think?" Barnard said.

  "Double duty, guard and grower," Malden said.

  "A guard without a firearm?"

  "Oh, he had a firearm." Zack pointed to a box of shells next to the crate of chemicals.

  Barnard read the label. "Twenty-two Long Rounds. He had a rifle."

  They glanced around. No rifle.

  "The killer came here first, maybe checked the shelter, then went to the grow to find Manuel," Malden said. "He could have come up the path over there."

  They started that way, but Zack put up his hand. "Just a second." He squatted to look at the ground at the base of a tree next to the shelter fly. "The rifle stood right here against the tree." He pointed out a small indent in the dry dirt made by the stock.

  Barnard put his hands on his hips. "Okay, so how'd you spot that little dent in the ground?"

  Zack grinned. "I didn't. I looked for a likely place to stand a rifle, then looked closer."

  "Well, it's gone now," Malden said. "Maybe the killer grabbed it and took it with him." He waved them to follow. "The other blood is down here."

  They followed him down the slope. Where the dirt was less packed they saw the killer's footprints, headed in both directions.

  The path led out of the clearing through shoulder high chamise. It grabbed at their clothing as they passed through it. They came to another open area shaded by a large oak. The killer's footprints vanished in a large pool of a black viscous substance. Zack had no doubt it was blood. He saw more coated the tree trunk. Whoever lost all this didn't walk away. His bad feeling came again.

  "Jesus!" Barnard said. "It's like someone walked into a shredder."

  "When I saw this, I turned right around," Malden said. "The crime boys need to handle this."

  They faced the scene of the carnage, took it all in.

  Zack walked a slow perimeter around the blood. Barnard followed. At the far side of the blood spill they found the rifle, a lever action Henry replica.

  "Better leave that for the lab boys." Zack hunkered down to study the scene, take it all in.

  Malden looked at the sun, ready to dip behind the ridge above them. "We're almost out of daylight. Darby sent for lights. He'll want to take a close look."

  Zack was reluctant. His eyes went over the scene one last time. He stood, looked at Barnard. "That rifle should yield blood samples and DNA, if not fingerprints."

  Barnard nodded.

  "I see the footprints where Manuel's killer came up the path," Zack said. "I don't see any others."

  "Where'd the body go?" Barnard asked what was on everybody's mind.

  "Like I told the state guys, there's nothing here but blood," Malden said.

  Barnard stared at the blood pool. "What the hell could have happened to the body?"

  "What gets me, there's no turf dug up, nothing disturbed on the ground like you'd expect from a struggle," Malden said. "It's as if the guy's blood drained out and his body drifted away like a balloon."

  The sun was almost gone behind the ridge. The strange bends i
n the oak branches and shadows in the dense chaparral, cloaked in dusk, took on new meaning.

  "It's too dark to do more," Barnard said.

  Zack nodded.

  They took a last look around, aware of a new stillness in the woods. No helicopter noise, the men's voices up the slope had ceased for the moment.

  It was dead quiet.

  Zack felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

  Malden spoke for the three of them. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  High noon is a good time of day for vultures, when the heat simmers over the fields and smells borne on the warm breeze are strong and pungent. Decay is more rapid when the sun is hottest.

  The vulture spread his wings wide and lifted lazily with the thermal. He waited, his nose ready to catch the tiniest scent that could mean his next meal. In the field below, the humans went away to eat and talk. The field was abandoned to the ground squirrels, lizards, and snakes––and the dead and the dying.

  The vulture saw two humans break away from the larger group and walk back to a grove of trees. One pulled the other along by the arm. He watched idly, curious. The female human grew agitated and waved her arms and the male grabbed her and threw her to the ground. He watched the female struggle, no match for the big male. The vulture's interest grew. There might be a meal in the aftermath.

  The struggle slowed, became less frantic. There was no smell of blood. The vulture heard cries but he knew this was not a kill. Disappointed, he stretched his wings out full and allowed the thermal to lift him back to his former height. His search for food resumed, the humans forgotten.

  * * * * *

  Jesus watched Rafael Rodriguez lead Candida away across the field. She seemed to go freely. He wondered what she started to say to him that morning. He thought it had something to do with this man Rodriguez, something that worried her. Mind your own business, he told himself. The last thing you need is trouble.

  The remainder of his lunchtime he thought of home. At the end of lunch he saw Rafael come back across the field alone. It occurred to Jesus to ask Rafael about her, but again thought better of it. It was not good that he was already in disfavor with his supervisor; don't make it worse. Jesus pulled on his gloves. To his relief he saw Candida come running across the field toward the platform. There, you see? he told himself. You worry for nothing.