ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  "You were right on," Zack said. "He is an Indian, a really big Indian."

  "We caught him in the act." The two men were like boys eager to be the one to tell the tale. "He strung the man up, just as we surmised, emptied out the body cavity, butchered him, fed his entrails to the birds, and carted him off."

  Susan breathed deeply, her eyes glistened.

  "Unfortunately, the man happened to be a state trooper," Zack said.

  "A policeman," Susan said. She gasped. "You saw all this?"

  "We were a captive audience," Eagle Feather said.

  "Oh, I wish I'd seen this thing," Susan said.

  "Thing?" The men surveyed her.

  "You saw it. Do you really think it was an Indian with a thyroid problem?"

  Eagle Feather lifted his eyebrows. "You think it's a shape-shifting creature."

  "Well? Think of the size, the strength, the appearance and then disappearance of this Indian. Neither of you could track it successfully." Susan looked from one man to the other.

  Zack stared. "We're back to the alternate species."

  "Exactly. We know they're out there. We don't always know what form they take." Susan was excited.

  Eagle Feather looked at Zack. "We tend to consider such creatures as we would animals, expect them to all look alike and act alike. Shouldn't they be more like humans with their own minds, own personalities? This Indian, if it actually is one of those creatures, might just be a solitary individual who loves the mountains, loves to hunt, and doesn't want people poaching on his ground."

  "We could surmise that these creatures all share the ability to shift shape. It would explain how they've survived all these years undetected," Zack said.

  Susan continued the thought, her excitement palpable. "Just like humans, there would be good ones and evil ones." Her mind whirred on. "There can't be too many of them, or we'd know more about them. But there must to be families of them, hidden away."

  "With shape-shifting capability, they could hide in plain sight." Zack pointed out. "You could be one, Susan."

  "I think White Man is one," Eagle Feather said. "He's pretty shifty."

  Zack grinned, held up a hand. "We're getting a little carried away. Our immediate problem, believe it or not, isn't this Indian, it's the humans who initiated this drug war." He peered at Susan. "We're pretty sure this trooper the Indian killed, Dom, was connected with the cartels in some way. He tried to kill us today to prevent us from learning something."

  Susan grabbed Zack's arm. "He tried to kill you?"

  "We were lucky. The danger isn't over, though. There is someone in a high position who helps one of the cartels. He doesn't want us nosing around either."

  "How do you know this?"

  "The cartel assassins we've followed have information they could only acquire from a ranger or law enforcement administrator. They knew spot-on where to find the marijuana grows––and us, for that matter."

  "We've not told anyone what happened to Dom," Eagle Feather said. "That's our ace in the hole. All they know is he is missing. Only Rick Malden, the ranger, knows we believe Dom tried to kill us."

  Zack nodded. "The other link is the Mexican worker in the hospital. He knows more than he thinks he knows. They've tried to kill him too." He glanced at Susan. "We've got him under guard."

  "What will you do now?"

  "We'll wait," Zack said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Jesus had a headache. The nurse showed him where to squeeze the tube in his arm if he needed more pain medicine. He did it now. He lay back and waited for it to take effect.

  The guard was outside his door. He'd poked his head in to introduce himself after the FBI agent left. The man spoke passible Spanish, which made Jesus feel better.

  Jesus tried to sort it all out in his mind. What he didn't get was why, or who. Why did the FBI man think he needed protection? Who would want to kill him? He wasn't in the mountains anymore, no threat to anyone.

  Señor Zack said he'd be back to talk to him. Maybe he could answer those questions. Meanwhile he'd wait, try to be patient.

  Jesus felt surprisingly good, despite his leg. Sure, his head ached and the knee still sent needles when he moved it. He felt well enough to climb aboard a plane, though. That's all he wanted to do.

  He listened to the sounds of the hospital, the swish of soft-soled nurses coming and going, the quiet hum of voices, the click of bottles in the carts, the rattle of dishes. Everything was hushed, subdued.

  He looked around the room for the first time. It was spare. His eye roved to a plastic curtain across the room. Another patient. He hadn't noticed. He looked the other way, saw a tall metal table set out from the wall, his personal items on it, beyond it the open bathroom door, a sink. His bed faced a TV screen hung high up in the corner. There was a clock over the door. It was 5 PM.

  The nurse appeared in the doorway, smiled, came to his side. "How are you feeling?"

  "Better." Jesus said.

  "You should stay still for a while yet." The nurse busied herself with his fluid bag. "I came to tell you my shift has ended. The night nurse will be in shortly to take your dinner order." She smoothed his sheets. "Has the doctor been in?"

  Jesus thought, realized he hadn't. “No."

  "I'm sure he'll be here soon." She beamed a warm smile. "I'll see you tomorrow." She swished out the door.

  Confined, his pain medication kicking in, Jesus became logy. His lids crept down. He dozed.

  When he awoke, the clock over the door said 6 PM. His stomach churned. The night nurse hadn't taken his order; maybe her shift hadn't started. He was hungry now.

  He reached for the button to summon the nurse; something made him pause. Outside, the corridor was silent. The nurse's chatter, people walking, bottles clinking; all gone. He became still, listened for any indication of human presence out there––heard nothing. He tensed, sat up. His head felt like an empty room with the dull pain bouncing off its walls. He looked at the clock. 6:05 PM.

  There'd been no noise since he awakened. Not a sound in this large, busy hospital for a full five minutes. He did not think that was normal, not even for the night shift. A lurking fear clutched his mind.

  He called to the guard in a loud whisper. "Señor?"

  No answer.

  "Señor, are you there?"

  Still nothing.

  Something was wrong.

  Jesus didn't wait. He pulled the bandage off his wrist, removed the intravenous needle. A bright red dot blossomed on the sheet. He climbed from the bed, careful, wary of pain, moving as if a glass balanced on his head. He crept to the door, his hospital booties noiseless, inched his face around until he could see into the corridor.

  The chair against the wall was empty. The corridor stretched far away in either direction, a glistening tunnel of white light. Nothing moved. Part way along, the nurses' station jutted out; even there he saw no movement, heard no rustle of paper, clicking of keys––no sounds.

  Jesus ducked back into his room. He tried to tell himself not to worry, to go back to bed, but he couldn't. All his internal alarms sounded. Something was very, very wrong.

  They were coming for him, to finish the job. That was it. There wasn't much time. He dared not try to escape along the corridor for fear he'd run into the arms of the assassins. Nor was there a way out from the window, even if he could get it open.

  He had to think of something else.

  He turned to his bed, pulled the sheets taught, folded them over crisply, fluffed the pillow. The bed must look unoccupied. He removed the water pitcher, cup, paper towel, everything the nurse put on the tray table for him, hid them in the bathroom. He rolled the empty table back against the wall, pushed the intravenous feed stand deep into the corner. Then he lowered the bed, flattened it out.

  He glanced at his roommate's curtain. There'd been no sound from the patient. He peered around the divider––saw a balding head, the patient's back to him, on his side, apparently asleep. Jesus removed the medica
l chart from the foot of the bed, replaced it with his own. He hid the other patient's medical chart in the bathroom. His eyes flew around the room, he thought hard. It would have to do. Jesus grabbed his bedpan, crawled under his bed, placed the pan between himself and the door, lay still. He waited.

  Jesus had no sense of time, no idea how long he lay there. Someone was in the room now. There had been no sound. Jesus saw running shoes, orange and black, frayed cuffs of jeans. The feet paused just inside the door, slightly apart, facing Jesus. His heart thumped.

  There was a soft metallic click, a slight sound of metal brushing metal. The feet moved to the next bed, disappeared. Silence hung. Then it came: pffft and another pffft, followed each time by a low thunk.

  The shoes returned, came directly to the foot of his bed, faced it, stayed there. Jesus thought the thump of his heart against the floor would give him away.

  He heard another sound of metal brushing metal, another click. Jesus closed his eyes, waited.

  The feet turned, walked briskly out of the room.

  Still Jesus waited. Was it a trick? Would the killer return, catch him unaware? Four or five minutes passed, hour-like. Nothing. Jesus could wait no longer. He had to get out of this place.

  He crawled out from under the bed, looked for his clothes, had another thought. He went to his roommate's closet––found jeans, a collared shirt large enough to squeeze into, leather boots. He should look different; whoever tried to kill him might still be around. He pulled on the strange clothing, tried not to look at his roommate's bed, did anyway. Red encroached on white beneath the man, spreading. Jesus walked away. He crept from the room, found a stairwell, went down it two stairs at a time. His head throbbed at every step.

  The bottom door opened to a maintenance area. A straw hat hung on a hook. He put it on his head, pushed out the side door. He blinked in the sudden glare.

  There was one person Jesus thought he could trust. He walked south, toward Santa Lupita.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  They didn't have to wait long. Susan had just begun another speculative discussion about the giant Indian when Zack's phone vibrated. It was Barnard. Zack listened to his news. He put his phone down, stared at Eagle Feather, stunned. "Damn."

  "What now?" Eagle Feather said.

  "That was Barnard. Someone just killed Jesus. Shot him to death right there in the hospital."

  Eagle Feather breathed in. "Where was the guard?"

  Zack was angry. "Barnard said they hadn't got around to posting one yet."

  "So. The last possible witness against an inside man is gone," Susan said.

  "I should have stayed. I should have stayed right there until the guard was set."

  Eagle Feather shook his head at Zack. "White Man, you take yourself too seriously. There was no way to know they wanted Jesus that badly."

  Susan nodded, shrugged. "They took a huge risk."

  Zack couldn't excuse himself. He'd been a step behind this entire investigation. Meanwhile, bodies piled up all around him. Now there was nothing to be done. As Susan pointed out, the last witness was gone, their last clue erased.

  Zack's phone rang again. He looked down at it, reluctant, picked it up. It was Barnard again. "Yeah?" He listened to the sheriff. His eyes widened. He put down the phone, shook his head in wonder. "You're not gonna believe this. Barnard now says the dead guy isn't Jesus after all. He says Jesus shot the man in the next bed and ran."

  The three sat in silent amazement.

  "What...why would he do that?" Susan said.

  Zack shrugged.

  "Where would he get a gun?"

  Eagle Feather regarded Susan. "Not from the guard. There wasn't one." He turned to Zack. "What does Barnard think?"

  Zack stood, agitated. "He seems to think Jesus is more involved with the cartels than he let on. He thinks they smuggled a gun in to him somehow. Jesus shot the bedmate because he was a witness." He eyed Eagle Feather. "What do you think? You saw Jesus."

  "I think he was scared. He really didn't understand why someone wanted to kill him. I don't buy it."

  Susan looked from one to the other. "What do you think happened?"

  "I don't think Jesus shot the man, but someone did. That means an assassin came to the room. Why?" Zack ticked a finger. "We know someone wanted to kill Jesus. We don't know anything about the guy in the other bed. Did someone want to kill him too? That's a bit too much of a coincidence." Zack shook his head. "No, someone killed the wrong man. Jesus escaped somehow."

  Eagle Feather nodded in agreement. "What could Jesus possibly know that makes him so dangerous to these people?"

  "I don't know." Zack headed for the door. "There's only one guy who can tell us. Jesus himself."

  "Where're you goin'?"

  "I'm gonna find him."

  Eagle Feather stood. "Here we go," he said under his breath. He looked at Susan. "Coming?"

  The sun was low in the sky. The heat of the day lingered. Zack kept the car windows open; put the AC on low.

  Eagle Feather raised an eyebrow at Zack. "You got a plan?"

  "Of sorts." Zack brought up a city map display on the dash screen. "If Jesus left the hospital grounds, and I think he did, he'd have nowhere to go except back to Rufus' ranch. It's the only place he knows that's safe. So assume Jesus headed south. The most direct way from the hospital is Main Street." Zack pointed to it on the map. "We're on Broadway, about four blocks away from the hospital. How long do you figure it would take him to walk those four blocks on his bad leg?"

  Eagle Feather rolled his eyes. "Talk about long shots. Okay, I'll play. Let's call it ten minutes. Add another five or so for him to escape his floor and leave the hospital grounds. If we assume Barnard called us right away, Jesus should have hit this intersection about twenty minutes ago."

  "So turn left?"

  Eagle Feather chuckled. "Yeah, turn left."

  The light at the intersection took forever to change. At the green arrow, Zack made a wide left turn. He stayed in the right lane and drove slow. The three scanned the sidewalks. The buildings were larger south of Broadway, more industrial. The sidewalks were wider, more open.

  Eagle Feather whistled under his breath. "I don't believe it. Look. See that guy with the hat pulled low in the tight jeans? Isn't that him?"

  Zack looked. The man walked with a distinct limp. "I'll pull up beyond him and park. We'll wait for him. I don't want to startle him into running."

  They pulled up opposite a Hyundai dealership and parked. All around them were large windowless buildings with huge parking lots. There was nowhere to hide.

  When Jesus came abreast of him, Eagle Feather stepped out. He said in Spanish, "Jesus. Remember me? I'm Eagle Feather. I was with the FBI agent in the hospital. I'm here to help you."

  Jesus looked up, startled, turned as if to run.

  "Espera¡ Wait. We are here to help you."

  Jesus paused.

  Susan stepped out of the car. Her presence seemed to quiet him.

  "There is nowhere for you to go. The killers will find you," Eagle Feather said. "If you come with us, we can save your life."

  Jesus looked suspicious. "You said I would be safe in the hospital."

  "We thought so. We didn't know we shouldn't trust people."

  Jesus didn't move.

  Susan laid a hand on his arm.

  "No one will know you are with us," Eagle Feather said. "Agent Tolliver will protect you."

  "How did you...?"

  "Jesus, we can't stand here in the open. We will be seen. When you are in the car, we can explain along the way." Susan held the rear door.

  Jesus' shoulders drooped, a defeated man. He climbed into the rear seat. Susan went to the other side, climbed in next to him.

  Zack pulled out into the traffic. He looked in the rear view mirror at Jesus, smiled. "¡Hola!"

  Eagle Feather introduced Susan. He turned to Zack. "Where will we take him?"

  "Back to the hotel, I suppose. We can add a couple
of items to his disguise, bring him in the back way." He paused. "We can't tell anyone else about this. We'll be harboring a fugitive until we get this straightened out."

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  They decided Jesus should stay in Susan's room. If the inside man they sought suspected Zack of harboring Jesus, he was least likely to search her room. Susan would take Zack's room; Zack would sleep in Eagle Feather's extra bed.

  Jesus was demoralized, on the edge of panic. Zack would have preferred to let him sleep, interview him in the morning, but time didn't allow this. It was critical they learn all they could from Jesus that evening. The four of them gathered in Susan's suite.

  Zack wanted to include Rick Malden.

  "Malden could be involved," Eagle Feather said.

  Zack nodded slowly. "I know. I feel it's a chance we have to take. My instinct says he's clean."

  "It's a risk." Eagle Feather glanced at Susan.

  "Zack's instincts have kept me alive," she said.

  "Okay, call him."

  They made Jesus as comfortable as possible in an armchair, with a hassock to rest his foot. He was hungry. Susan offered him a Subway sandwich she had in the small fridge. Jesus demolished it in short order. When the last crumb of the sandwich was gone along with half a bottle of water, the interview began.

  Zack knew very little Spanish, Susan knew some. Eagle Feather would have to translate.

  "Will you tell us what happened in the hospital?" Zack said.

  Still panicked, almost unable to talk about it, Jesus relived those moments. As the story unfolded, the listeners were filled with admiration.

  "You did well," Zack told Jesus. "Not many people would have thought so clearly."

  Jesus said nothing. He didn't feel the hero.

  "Who wants you dead?"

  Jesus responded to Zack with a mixture of fear and puzzlement. "I don't know."

  "It is important we know everything. It is the only way we can help you and bring the killers to justice."

  There was a knock at the door.

  Jesus swung his feet down as if to run.