Eagle Feather's eyes were closed. He kept them that way.
"They seemed to know just where to find those hidden marijuana grows," Zack said.
Eagle Feather said nothing.
"You wouldn't send professional hit men across the border from Mexico, and into a forest just to wander around hoping to find something."
One of Eagle Feather's eyes popped open. "Where're you going with this?"
"I don't know. I don't believe in coincidence, and there's a bit too much of that going on."
The eye closed again.
"Think about it." Zack scratched his back against the tree. "These two assassins know exactly where to find those two growers. They went directly there, there was no hesitation. They split up, and one knows just where to go to find Malden...and when he'd be there. Malden agrees that someone had to tip off those killers to know when we'd be at the river. They split up at the camp; one followed the growers, the other went directly to the river to shoot Malden––again, no hesitation. They had to have received information."
"You think they're on radios, an inside man cues them."
"That's got to be it, right?" Zack waved an arm around. "This is a huge place. You could spend weeks trying to locate a well-hidden marijuana crop like that. But they went right to it. What does that tell you?"
"It tells me I'm not gonna get my nap." Eagle Feather opened both eyes. "Okay, suppose you're right. Who could this inside guy be? It'd have to be someone in the loop, someone who knows everything going on. He'd need access to law enforcement, and to forestry service planning. He'd need access to cartel information, too. Who could possibly be all that? Seems a stretch to me."
"Yeah, I suppose."
"Unless..." Now Eagle Feather couldn't let go. "Suppose someone on the law enforcement side is on the payroll of a cartel, and this particular guy can access surveillance photos from helicopter flyovers? If he worked for the rival cartel, he could give them exact coordinates for the crops. And if he was aware of copter flights, he might know the rangers' movements. He might have all the pieces."
Zack stared at Eagle Feather with raised eyebrows. "This is why I keep you around."
"Who called Malden to send him off to the new grow, I wonder?"
"I asked him that. His partner called him, but he thinks someone higher up set it up. He plans to find out." Zack chuckled. "When you think about it, everyone in that helicopter this morning fits the criteria you just outlined."
Eagle Feather stared at Zack. He wasn't laughing. "That's right, you know. If it is one of them, he's thinking we're going to figure it out, sooner or later, and––"
"And that's something he can't allow," Zack finished, his eyes scanning distant trees. At that very moment there was the bright flash of reflected light. "Down." Zack launched himself away from the tree. A thunk sounded as a bullet entered the tree where he had just been. The report of a rifle came a fraction of a second later.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
After Zack's headlong dive he ended in a small hollow behind a rotting log, not much protection. He squirmed his body around, inched his head up. A crack in the log gave a narrow view of the opposite slope, but he saw nothing. "Eagle Feather?"
"Over here, behind the rock."
Zack could barely hear him over the chattering stream. "Have you got a weapon?"
"Yeah, a knife, but I can't quite reach him with it."
"I have a handgun."
"We're gonna have to ask him to come a lot closer, White Man."
"If this is one of our buddies from the helicopter, he knows we don't have a rifle."
Zack waited for that thought to strike home. It did.
"Shit."
"He can wait us out, shoot us the minute we move."
"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture." Zack heard Eagle Feather grunt, as if he had changed position. "He'll ease down the slope toward us, just out of pistol range, wait for us to show ourselves."
"Any ideas?"
"Depends on whether there's just one shooter."
"I think just one."
"How sure are you, White Man?"
"Not that sure." Zack reached under his thigh, moved the stick that ground into him. He waited. The silent forest waited with him.
Eagle Feather's voice drifted to him. "I know where there's a rifle."
Zack was puzzled...remembered––the rifle abandoned by Big Man. "You got a plan?" Zack's pistol was in his hand. He scanned the slope.
"Here's plan A, you go get it."
"Good plan." Zack grinned despite himself. "You lay down a covering fire with your knife."
There was no reply, no responding chuckle. Eagle Feather was gone.
Zack looked out at the slope. There was nothing to see. There had been no indication of the gunman's presence since the one shot. A ray of sun sifted through the leafy branches onto his leg, heated it. He wanted to move it, but there was no place to put it.
The sniper would work his way behind them. He'd find a place where he could see them; just pick them off. Zack would first know he was there when he felt the incoming bullet. There was no way to protect both sides. Not a good situation. He hoped Eagle Feather got clear away, could create a diversion.
Perspiration formed on his back, trickled along his spine. His legs threatened to cramp. The beam of sun cooked his leg. He was thirsty. If Eagle Feather could to do something, he hoped it would be soon.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shot. It sounded like the same rifle, more distant, off where Eagle Feather had gone. If the rifleman was there, he couldn't be here. Was there another shooter? Like Eagle Feather said, how sure was he? No choice. Zack eyed the next bit of cover, breathed in, jumped up, ran. He dove behind a tree. No shot. Had he surprised the shooter, or was no one there? He peered up the slope...nothing.
Zack took several deep breaths, ran again, dropped behind a bush. Still nothing. He was sure now. There was only one rifleman. The bad news, he may have just shot Eagle Feather.
Zack slipped out of cover, his confidence growing, moved in the direction of the second shot. He followed the stream up canyon, the way they'd gone this morning. When he reached the kill site, he took cover. His eyes searched the forest floor. He was sure he was in the right place. Big Man's rifle was gone. Zack hoped that meant Eagle Feather had it.
Now what? Where was Eagle Feather? The second shot had come from up here somewhere, impossible to pinpoint the spot. He would keep going, hope to run into Eagle Feather, not the sniper.
Zack sprinted from cover to cover up the slope. He rested until his breath quieted, ran, dove for cover, did it all over again. He'd come far up the valley wall now; fewer trees, the undergrowth thick but short. He launched himself into a thick stand of Mazanitis, landed prone. He stared at a man's leg, followed it up––Eagle Feather. The Navajo was seated, his back against a thick trunk, his legs stretched out. The rifle lay across his lap.
Zack came to his knees.
"You sound like a tank coming up the slope, White Man. Maybe you should announce your arrival with a megaphone next time."
"Christ, Eagle Feather. You scared the hell out of me. I thought the sniper shot you."
"He didn't shoot me. He didn't even shoot at me."
"What did he shoot?"
"I have no idea."
Zack slumped down opposite Eagle Feather, glanced at the rifle. "Now you've got that, I feel a bit better."
Eagle Feather grimaced. "We need to find him before he finds us."
"Where'd that shot come from?"
The Navajo pointed up the slope. "Up there somewhere. I've been waiting for him to come down. I don't think he's coming."
"Maybe we should go there, see what's holding him up," Zack said.
"My thoughts exactly." Eagle Feather led out. The red-limbed brush thinned. They took cover in clumps of sage, felt more exposed. Zack left distance between them; why give the shooter two targets at the same time? They neared the top of the slope, moved into tall grass, much less cov
er. Dry, brittle debris underfoot made stealth difficult.
Eagle Feather disappeared into a clump of sage. Zack waited, followed. When he got there Eagle Feather was in a crouch, his gaze on something beyond the sage bushes, his palm toward Zack. He turned, put a finger to his lips, motioned him down.
Zack dropped on his stomach, wormed his way forward. He raised his head until he could see beyond the shrubs. He saw a grassy meadow, a large oak tree with ravens clustered in its upper branches. He heard their raucous cries. At the foot of the tree was a huge man, his back to them. The muscles of his bare shoulders and arms undulated; his head was down, intent on his work. Two feathers projected from a headband, a thick black braid hung halfway down his massive bare back, the spine deeply hollowed where lower back met waist, a dark leather breechclout partially covered brown muscular buttocks above thick thighs, long legs, the feet hidden by tall grass. The Indian was focused on something obscured by the giant's bulk, something suspended from a thick oak branch a dozen feet above the ground.
The head and shoulders of the colossus bent lower, as if his work took him there. To Zack's horror, the head of a man with close-cropped hair came into view. The head jerked side-to-side side as the Indian worked. When the giant moved to a crouch, his work became clear. The man's chest and upper abdomen were revealed, slashed open. The Indian busily removed the man's organs. The victim's face seemed familiar, yet indeterminable at the distance.
The giant stood, stepped back, seemed to consider his work. He put back his head as if to sniff the air, swung around. His fierce gaze traveled along the perimeter of the meadow.
The suspended body of the man came full to Zack's view. His arms dangled at his sides, his shirt hung in strips, his abdomen gaped open, intestines hung like a grotesque rope. His pants drooped over his shoe tops like a collapsed tent, drenched in blood.
Zack's glimpse was momentary. The Indian's slow scrutiny came toward him; he flattened. As he did he uttered an involuntary gasp, for in that moment he recognized the victim.
The two men waited, neither man breathed. When at last Zack dared lift his head, in by inch, he saw the monster was back at his gruesome task. His big hand reached deep inside the body cavity, grasped organs, and pulled them out. He worked efficiently, used a large knife to slash the trailing tissue and sinew. Zack could see the victim's face now, frozen in death in a blend of surprise and horror. There could be no doubt––it was Dom.
The Indian was methodical, a hunter field dressing a deer. The body cavity emptied and scraped, he started to dismember it, severed the body parts cleanly at the joints with quick slashes of his great knife, sectioned Dom's body from bottom to top. A neat stack of body parts grew, until at last nothing remained suspended from the tree but Dom's head. The giant removed it, placed on top of the pile, removed the leather belt and cloth strips that had suspended the trooper from the branch, used them to tie the body parts into a tight bundle.
For his next chore he picked up the intestines and organs and draped them over branches. Before he had finished a black cloud of birds descended, fought and clawed over each morsel. The giant ignored them, lifted the bundle of body parts, swung it over his back. He surveyed the ground. Apparently satisfied, he turned away. One powerful leaping step propelled him forty feet across the meadow. In moments he was gone.
The squabbling black flock finished and flew off, a few at a time, until only one or two remained searching the limbs and ground beneath the tree for missed morsels. After the very last bird had flown, nothing remained on the flattened, blood-slicked grass.
The two men waited a long time in silence. Zack struggled to keep his gorge down. He glanced at Eagle Feather. His friend was white. "That was..."
"Yeah, I saw. That was Dom." Eagle Feather shook his head, awed.
"It came for Dom because he tried to kill us."
"Maybe, maybe not. The shot we heard; I guess Dom must have seen it."
Zack stood, stared where the monster had disappeared. "Did it know we were here, do you think?"
"Ordinarily, I'd say no. We weren't that close, the wind was toward us, our approach was quiet. But this thing? Did you see it sniff the breeze?" Eagle Feather shuddered. "Who knows?"
The men walked toward the tree. Before they'd gone far, Zack saw a scoped rifle. It lay in the grass near the edge of the meadow, likely dropped there after Dom's futile attempt to kill the monster.
Eagle Feather put a hand on Zack's arm. "Right now we've got a choice. We can go over there, leave prints, become involved in Dom's killing, or move out of here right now.
Zack paused, thought it over. "You're right. Leave the rifle where it is. Let police investigators discover this scene." He turned a grim face to Eagle Feather. "We know now that Dom tried to kill us. We don't want anyone to think we killed him. It may be wise to keep our presence here a secret, at least for now."
"What about the Indian monster?"
"I think we need another chat with Paula," Zack said.
The friends walked back down the canyon to the stream crossing. They found their packs, picked them up, and headed up the trail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jesus ogled the room with wonder. He'd never been inside Don Rufus' ranch house. The tile floor glistened like the shimmering waters of the bay near his home, the red-toned Mazanitis furniture spread about like driftwood on a beach, the great windows opened to a matchless vista. He marveled and waited.
Jorge came for him that morning in his rattletrap pickup. He asked no questions, he seemed already to know the answers. He brought news of his own. Rafael Rodriquez had been fired. The foreman tried to tell Don Rufus that Jesus attacked him for no reason and should be arrested. Candida came forward to accuse Rafael of rape. After that, the floodgates opened. One by one, the women came forward, complained about Rafael and his sexual harassment. Rodriguez was arrested, would be brought up on multiple charges of rape. Jorge was made supervisor in his place. Jesus was vindicated. Jesus listened in amazement. So much happened in so short a time.
These events were on Jesus' mind when Don Rufus entered the room, Jorge behind him. The rancher pointed to a chair, spoke in Spanish. "Sit."
Jesus sat.
Don Rufus leveled his gaze on him.
Jesus hung his head.
Señor Reyes was gruff yet kindly. He spoke in English now. "We'll get a doc to take a look at that knee. Jorge has fresh clothes for you, an' I'm sure you'd like a shower." He looked at Jorge, who translated.
Jesus nodded.
"What I'm gonna say, don't get me wrong," Reyes said. "I'm glad you did what you did, believe me. If you hadn't roughed up that bastard, who knows how many women he would 'a hurt."
Jesus waited.
Reyes spread his hands wide, a man with a dilemma. "But son, I can't let you stay here. You attacked my supervisor, even if he did deserve it." He ticked off on stubby fingers. "You were up in those hills hidin' from the law when you was supposed to be right here workin'. If you'd come to me, I'd 'a listened to ya."
Jesus hung his head again.
Reyes sat in a large leather armchair. He eyed Jesus and sighed. "I got to let you go, son. But you did me a favor by standin' up for your amigos and stoppin' that bully. I always repay a favor." Reyes gestured to Jorge to listen as he spoke. "You're gonna go to the hospital until they say you can travel. I'm gonna cut you a check for a year's work an' I'm gonna buy you a ticket home. Then we'll be square." Reyes waited as Jorge translated.
Jesus felt a surge of joy. He would be going home. He would see his family. He would come home with money. "Muchas gracias," he said in a hoarse whisper.
Don Rufus smiled. He rose to his feet. Jesus also stood. Reyes reached out and took Jesus' hand. "Good luck, Amigo" He walked away.
It wasn't until he was out in the driveway that Jesus remembered his obligation to the cartel. His bliss evaporated. Panicked, he turned to Jorge. "I can't go home," he said. "My agreement––"
"Wait. We can't talk here. Ge
t in the truck."
Jesus climbed into the passenger side.
Jorge started the motor, turned to Jesus. "I have good news for you. The cartel says you may go home."
Jesus waited. There must be more.
"They know what you have gone through. They have seen your loyalty. They will pay you the money they promised."
Jesus was in shock. How could he have so much good luck after so much bad? It was hard to comprehend.
Jorge engaged the clutch. "There is one thing, though."
Jesus waited.
Jorge peered at him. "Listen carefully. Your contract has been extended––for life. If ever the organization needs you, they will contact you. They will expect you to respond at once. You understand? Can you accept this?"
That was all? Jesus could not believe his good luck. He nodded many times. "Si, si, si." He felt enormous relief. His rigid body relaxed. Then, as he let down, his injury, exhaustion, and dehydration took over; he was overcome. Jesus clung to the truck door. The pain in his knee raged.
Jorge looked at him. "I think the change of clothes and shower must wait, Jesus. We will go to the hospital right away."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Darby was packing his kit when Zack and Eagle Feather found him. He looked tired, his shirt damp on his back, yet his mood was good.
"I found tissue in with the blood." A sample bag was in his hand. "This should yield more information." He opened the cooler chest and dropped the specimen in a compartment with dry ice, leaned back and stretched. "Did you figure out where the wounded grower went?"
Zack shook his head. "He completely escaped us. We located a cave where he hid, but from there..." He shrugged.
Eagle Feather looked sidewise at Darby. "We found the guy in the Vibram-soled shoes, though, or at least what's left of him." He pointed to the blood pool at their feet. "He looked pretty much like that."
Darby stared at Eagle Feather, then groaned. "Not another one." He looked at his watch, called up the slope to his assistant. "Clem, they've found another blood pool."
ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Page 16
