Cold Winter Sun

by Forder, Tony J.

  The barkeep pushed two drinks onto the bar top in front of them. ‘You want me to run a tab?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Garcia shook his head, smiling. The diamond in his left upper canine winked. ‘Just getting rid of some of the desert dust from our dry mouths, then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘That’ll be fifteen bucks even. Where’re you folks headed today?’

  ‘Oh, just touring.’ Garcia had no clue what lay in any direction other than the route they had taken in from Roswell. He pulled a thick wad of notes from his jacket pocket, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to the woman. She grabbed it up and her squint dared him to ask for change, clearly deciding the other five was her tip.

  ‘Really? Touring, huh?’ Leaning an elbow on the bar top, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Not like there’s much in the way of scenery out here. Less you like dirt and scrub and the occasional herd of cattle.’

  ‘So we’re discovering. The mountains never seem to get any closer, either. A poor choice on our behalf, perhaps.’

  This was a drinker’s bar. There was no pool table, no slot machines, no widescreen TV, and the music was so low it was barely audible. He thought he could make out John Cougar Mellencamp singing something about a couple by the name of Jack and Diane, but nobody here was about to break out into a line dance. Garcia figured the FBI pair would be tuned into the conversation. He could only assume they were here for the same reason he and Barcs were, only with very different motives and outcomes in mind. His senses were jumping, on high alert. He had to be careful what he said, while at the same time remaining aware of the attention the pair of them might be getting from the two agents. A thought hit him and he decided to feel it out.

  He stretched across the bar and said in a soft and smooth voice, ‘What’s with the agents over there? Regulars here, are they?’

  For that he received a dig from Barclay’s elbow, but chose to ignore it.

  The woman regarded him as if he were insane. ‘Regulars? What do you think? All I know is something is going on around these parts lately, and we appear to be at the centre of it.’

  ‘Really? Sounds intriguing.’

  The barkeep stood upright and planted her hands on her hips. A good-looking woman worn down by life and all the excesses it offered. The few extra pounds she carried looked good on her though, and as she spoke again Garcia admired the way she returned his steady gaze.

  ‘This town gets its fair share of hippies and crazies all out looking for any sign of UFOs, crashed or otherwise. But over time you learn to recognise them for what they are even before they reach the bar itself. This past weekend we get a coupla young men who ain’t sending out the right signals. Then we get an Indian fellah looking for them. Earlier today we seen a Jeep prowling around, then later it’s the government waltzing in and looking for information.’ She paused, met Garcia’s eyes. ‘And now it’s you two, I’m guessing.’

  Other than the old woman at the far end, he had noted the other barflies. It was his job to maintain awareness at all times. The two guys hogging the middle were impossible to miss. They were big and tough-looking, meanness stamped all across their pudgy faces like a snarling tattoo. Another guy looked angry and spiteful enough it was probably best to ignore him completely, especially when it looked as if he had recently been on the wrong end of a beating and was itching to take it out on someone.

  Garcia knew a bit about that.

  The runt of the customer brood seemed to be in a world all of his own, standing there in his dark blue overalls and tugging on his baseball cap every few seconds. Two protruding front teeth overlapped his bottom lip, but you wouldn’t bet against them being the only ones still in his gums, judging by the chipped edges and stains on them. Garcia could tell that everyone at the bar was eavesdropping despite trying real hard to seem as if they were doing otherwise. But now they all sucked in a breath at the same time. All waiting for him to answer the barkeep’s statement.

  He widened his smile. Hiked his shoulders. ‘You got me. My friend and I are indeed looking for a man who we believe came this way. He might have passed through, or he could well have stopped to ask for directions. Either way, we are concerned for his safety, and wish to find out his whereabouts so that we can offer some comfort to his family.’

  The woman stuck out her hand and fluttered the fingers. ‘Show me. I’ll tell you if I seen him and I’ll tell you if it’s the same guy everyone else is looking for.’

  Garcia was alert to the movement from the table in the centre of the room. He sensed Barclay stiffen by his side, but held up a hand palm out to forestall any action his partner might be considering taking. Had the FBI not been in the saloon he would have taken out his phone and shown Vern Jackson’s photo to the woman behind the bar. Now he thought it best to keep those details to himself.

  ‘All I have is a description,’ he said, feigning embarrassment. ‘I know that’s not very helpful, but it’s all we have to go on right now.’

  ‘Your friend camera shy, is he?’

  ‘I don’t recall saying he was a friend.’

  As he spoke, the man and woman at the table got to their feet and moved steadily closer to the bar. Garcia steeled himself and hoped Barcs would keep his cool.

  ‘I’d be very interested to hear that description for myself,’ the male agent said.

  Garcia switched his attention immediately, turning to his right. ‘Would you now? And what does our private conversation have to do with you?’

  ‘We’d like to know whether the man you’re looking for is the same man we’re looking for.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think doubt comes into it. Mr..?’

  ‘Garcia. Agent..?’

  ‘Wilson. Special Agent Wilson. My partner here is Special Agent Green.’

  Garcia kept his eyes firmly on the male. ‘Very well. To satisfy your curiosity and to move things along, I’ll describe him for you. The man we are looking for is in his mid-fifties, two-hundred and fifty pound, drives a big old BMW. Oh, and he’s black.’

  The agent looked hard at him for a few beats. Nodded, seeming to reach a decision. ‘You know what, sir, I have a feeling you made up that entire description right there on the spot. I also reckon you do have a photo somewhere about your person of the man you’re really looking for. And to top it off, I’d bet my house on it being the very same man we came here to find.’

  Swallowing down both fear and anger, Garcia drew in a deep breath. ‘Agent Wilson,’ he said. ‘I realise you have a job to do, and that your job requires you to be naturally suspicious. I have encountered FBI agents before, and you are by no means unique. But I can assure you that the man I described is the man my partner and I have been searching for these past few days. A wife is missing her husband, a son his father. All we are doing is attempting to reunite them. It has nothing to do with your own search. So, if you don’t mind, we would–’

  ‘Whatever it is you’re about to say, I do mind,’ the agent said firmly. He moved half a step closer. ‘Just so’s we understand each other, there are two ways this can go from this point on. You either take out the photo or your phone on which you have the photo stored, show it to us and then tell us exactly why you are looking for this man, or we have to go to all the trouble of cuffing you both, taking you all the way back to Roswell, where we’ll obtain the very same information from you anyhow.’

  There was a loud snick sound. Garcia leaned closer, touching the point of the switchblade he had instantly produced to Agent Wilson’s stomach, so that the man would feel its tip prod the skin beneath his gleaming white shirt.

  ‘You forgot the third way,’ Garcia whispered. ‘Me and my partner kill you both and walk away without enduring any of that nonsense.’

  By now Agent Green had pulled her own weapon and was pointing it two-handed directly at his head. He did not have to check back over his shoulder to know that Barclay would also have a hand on his own gun, ready to blow holes in anyone who
got in their way. The conversation had gone sideways, but he was prepared for anything.

  ‘I put my weight into this blade, Agent Wilson, you die a slow and painful death,’ Garcia said.

  ‘You do that and Agent Green here blows a hole in your face so big you could put a fist through it.’

  ‘After which, my friend here will do the same thing to your colleague. He gets to drive away, you two each get to leave in a coffin.’

  ‘How ’bout none of you do a damned thing other than put your dicks away and we try figuring this thing out.’

  They all turned towards the voice, which echoed loud and clear around the bar. In the doorway stood Sheriff Crozier. He was holding a Remington pump-action shotgun in both hands and it was pointed in their general direction, but mostly at Garcia. His hands were steady and his voice firm.

  Crozier shook his head, his Stetson puffed up tall and proud. ‘Whatever you do,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me squeeze the trigger. I ain’t shot nobody in all my years on the job and I don’t want to be starting with any of you. But know this – just because I ain’t shot anybody before don’t mean I can’t or won’t. Set your weapons aside, people. I got this now.’

  19

  Joe Kane relied on more than either hard work or good fortune to help steer a way through life. His efforts were thorough and organised, carried out with fortitude and strength. Luck came in two flavours: the sweet taste of good and the sour tang of bad, and he rolled with whichever of the two came his way at any given moment. But then there were the spirit guides who assisted him whenever he needed it most, and their role in his destiny was the strongest of all.

  When he was ten years old, Kane was sent into the woods by his parents, with only a pouch of water and some hallucinogenic mushrooms to eat. He was told by his mother that he could return home whenever he liked, but that if he did so without first having found his animal spirit, he may never find one in later life. He remembered his father sitting him down prior to his journey of self-discovery and insisting he must be observant at all times, looking for animals behaving out of the ordinary, and that he should do so with good grace and a positive mind if he did not want to invite in unwelcome and mischievous spirits in their place. It was both a ritual he had been eagerly anticipating, and a challenge he willingly accepted.

  After four days, Kane stumbled back into the village. He was later told that he arrived in a trance-like state, but that having rested, and with a good supply of hot food and fresh water inside him, his strength returned as the effects of the mushrooms were flushed out of his system. The following day, he sat with his family and together they attempted to interpret the things he described as having witnessed.

  At various stages during his time spent out in the woods, an eagle, a fox and a snake had called to him. On the very first day, he had climbed over a rock fall, which eventually led to a clearing on a vast plateau, and it was here that he had seen the shadow of an eagle glide across his path. On the second night as Kane sat before a crackling fire, a fox stole quietly into his sleeping area looking to pilfer food, and upon being confronted had simply sat on its haunches staring into his eyes. The animal’s own eyes glowed like torches, and Kane read something in them he was unable to explain. But it was the snake sidewinding its way through the heat of the late-afternoon sun on the third day who had the loudest voice, and his father especially welcomed this.

  ‘You will see into the hearts of men,’ he told his son. ‘This will always provide you with an advantage, a keen edge. All you have to do is listen carefully to its voice.’

  His mother was joyous, as she believed that both the eagle and the fox had also touched his soul, and that although the snake would forever be his true spirit, the influence of the other two creatures would also help guide his way through life. She considered him blessed.

  As he grew older, Kane realised that what others attributed to instinct or conscience, was actually their own animal spirit trying to find its way. They simply were unaware of it, and so heard it only at certain times, and always in the voice of man. His ears, the channels into his spiritual chambers, were always open. He saw early and from afar, he reacted swiftly and with cunning, struck deftly when it was required, and fortune so often favoured him after the animals had whispered their sage advice in their own tongue.

  The discovery that the two men he was chasing now had a companion, was a revelation, but it did not get him any closer to finding out where they were now. However, it did compel him to pass that information along to his Irregulars.

  People were often surprised to learn that Kane even read books, let alone the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He had particularly enjoyed episodes in which the Baker Street Irregulars were employed by the famous detective. These characters who lived in the shadows and beyond were an early form of Confidential Informant, and Kane made use of such men and women throughout modern-day New Mexico. It was one of these Irregulars who called him the night before and gave him a name and a pattern of behaviour associated with that name. That was enough for Kane. He did the rest himself.

  He had driven to the saloon in Roswell early on Thursday morning, feeling the rush of the hunt spread throughout his body. He had no idea what was happening or where this diversion would lead, but his guides insisted he was getting closer all the while and that he must keep both heart and mind open to every possibility. He felt it deep inside the marrow of his bones, in the blood flowing through his veins, and in every single breath he took.

  When he first entered the saloon, Kane’s intention was to be direct. He would ask whoever was behind the bar for Al Chastain. This was the name he had been given, together with an interesting connection between Chastain and the men he sought. But as he closed the door behind him, something told him this was the wrong approach. That caution was required. He bought a large coffee and a Danish pastry, found a seat in the corner looking out on the other customers, from where he could also observe both the bar and the entrance. He decided the best way forward was to sit and drink and listen. The snake inside him was at peace with this.

  It was a popular spot with the locals and tourists alike. This was the place he was meant to be, no matter how long he had to sit and dwell upon all the other possibilities.

  Which turned out to be not long at all.

  There was something immediately off to him about the two men who entered as he sipped his second coffee of the morning. Something that sent Kane’s alert sensors soaring. It existed not only in the way they carried themselves, but also in their watchful and intelligent eyes. The taller of the two, with rough stubble on his face, glanced over at Kane and for a moment their eyes locked. He knew that there was only one thing to do that would not draw attention to himself. Looking away too quickly was not the solution. Neither was holding the man’s eyes engaged in a staring contest. Instead, he lingered for a couple of heartbeats, and then looked back down at his mug of steaming hot coffee, which he drank from and savoured the taste of.

  A couple of minutes later, Kane heard an English accent as the other man ordered two coffees. He managed to keep his head and his eyes perfectly still when a moment later the same man asked to speak with Al Chastain. From the corner of his eye, he saw the barman return to his post, pick up a counter phone and dial a number. He did this three more times in between fixing drinks. A while later he walked across to the table at which the two men were sitting. The barman’s voice was low and this time Kane could hear nothing of what was said, but he did notice a look of concern pass across the face of the man with the stubble.

  The two had come for Chastain.

  Chastain was clearly not available.

  But what did that mean?

  As the two men rose from their seats, Kane had to make an instant decision: remain where he was in the hope that Chastain would appear, or follow these strangers. Joining the dots he imagined how the separate pieces slotted together. There were direct links here, from the men he had been seeking to Chastain, and now seemingly from Ch
astain to these two Englishmen. Perhaps those connection would eventually form a circle. He sent his mind in search of guidance, and before the bar door had even closed behind the two men, the snake whispered in his ear with its answer.

  20

  We walked back out of the Weather Balloon bar shortly after 9.30am. Terry and I had been in the United States for virtually sixty-five hours and still Vern Jackson was no closer to us than he had been when we stepped off the plane at LAX. That bothered me, and I knew it was bugging the shit out of Terry.

  The evening before, I managed to persuade Van Dalen that she would be safer with us on the Lear than remaining in the hotel on her own. It was a simple matter of extrapolation and logic, I told her – if we could find her then so could the bad guys. And I doubted they would take her out for a meal and a drink once they tracked her down.

  It did not take her long to reach a decision.

  So the three of us spent the night on the plane, which remained tucked away inside the hangar alongside a Gulfstream, but refuelled and ready to go the moment we called for the pilot, who was staying in a nearby motel.

  We spent time hashing things out, kicking the tyres on the story to see if it all held together. I got the distinct impression that Van Dalen was holding something back, though I could not work out why she would nor what it could possibly be. Clearly she trusted us – unless her entire story was a fabrication, which I didn’t buy. She had also accepted our invitation to stay overnight at the airport. But there was something the young woman was choosing to keep to herself, and that made me feel uneasy. Usually when people elected to keep secrets, they were the things you most needed to hear.

  We discussed our options. Other than locating Van Dalen, Terry and I agreed that things here were pretty much stalled. Our plan earlier in the day had been for him to head off up to Vegas while I stuck it out in and around Roswell. That remained a possibility, but less so now that we knew Vern had definitely been in New Mexico. The major problem remained in having no clue what had happened to either Vern or Bruce Kelper after they dumped the Kia.