The commander fell into apoplectic silence.
“Noble Nexus was a Dutch Warmblood out of a famous lineage, bred and trained at Rocking Horse Farms in Georgetown, Kentucky. The rider purchased Noble Nexus for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. The former owners were concerned about selling the horse to the rider, because they had watched him ride and weren’t sure he was experienced enough to handle such a high-spirited animal. But good money is good money, and so they sold him the horse.
“The rider took the horse home to his little ranch in Palmdale, Florida, and began riding him in dressage competitions. The man, in truth, was not a good rider, but he compensated by having a highly trained horse with a strong desire to please. So, while the rider did not distinguish himself in these competitions, he did well enough. That gave our man the idea he was a far more talented dressage rider than he actually was. It also helped him qualify for the Florida Winter Equestrian Jubilee.”
Perelman saw that Baugh looked almost paralyzed. His face had gone from red to palest white. Darby was sitting like a statue, still holding the steno pad and pen.
“At the jubilee, when his turn came, the man rode Noble Nexus into the dressage arena and began to perform. Noble Nexus was a marvelous horse, with spirit, beauty, and athleticism. He had a heart as big as the world, ready and willing to perform his very best. But his rider was nervous and unsure. In the arena, with all those people watching, Noble Nexus tried to understand what the rider wanted him to do, but the rider was sending him contradictory signals with the wrong leg pressure, the wrong touch, the wrong weighting. What was worse, to steady his nerves the man had taken a quick drink before the competition. Horses have an extremely keen sense of smell, and this new and ugly scent on his rider alarmed Noble Nexus. Things reached a crisis when the rider tried to get Noble Nexus to perform a difficult maneuver known as tempi changes, in which the horse changes lead in the middle of a canter, multiple times in a row.”
At this Pendergast paused and tilted his head to examine Baugh with a cold eye.
“They started cantering around the arena, but Noble Nexus was confused and scared. When he didn’t know what to do, the rider jabbed his spurs hard into his flanks. So Noble Nexus did what any normal horse would do: he threw his rider. In front of the entire stadium.”
Another long pause.
“The rider was unhurt physically, just a little dusted up. But he was humiliated. This rider had a particular kind of personality: he was one of those men who are supremely sure of themselves, who rise in life from the ability to project absolute self-assurance to all those around them. A man who is never wrong, who has no self-reflection, a man to whom any mistake or problem must be someone else’s fault. In short, he was a man who would go to any lengths to preserve his self-image. To such a man, getting thrown from a horse in front of ten thousand people could mean only one thing: the horse was at fault. More than that—the horse was dangerous. There was only one way the rider could prove to the world that it was the horse, and not he, who was to blame: Noble Nexus had to be put down.”
Pendergast fell silent. Perelman felt horror creep up his spine.
Baugh spoke. “You’re a sick man, Pendergast, if you think this story is going to intimidate me. That was a dangerous horse, and I have the paperwork to prove it. A trainer certified it as dangerous, and a top-notch vet approved the certification and put it down. It was the only safe and humane thing to do, or other riders would have been put at risk.”
Pendergast removed a document from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “Here is an affidavit, sworn and notarized, from the trainer in question, stating that you bullied him, up to and including the threat of physical harm, into certifying the horse as dangerous. In the affidavit he details your intimidation and expresses his opinion that the horse was not dangerous and that the fault of being thrown was entirely yours. He also expresses his enormous regret at what he did and his desire to atone.”
He slipped another piece of paper out of his briefcase.
“This is another sworn and notarized affidavit, from the veterinarian you engaged, who confesses to taking a five-thousand-dollar payment in order to approve the certification and put down the horse. He additionally says that you threatened to, quote, ‘make sure his son would never find work as long as he lives’ if the vet refused to cooperate. The son had just graduated from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy, which put that veterinarian very much in your power. And he, too, expresses enormous sorrow at the role he played in the killing of that beautiful animal.”
Baugh had gone even paler. God only knew what he must be feeling. Perelman, for his part, felt sick to his stomach. The story reminded him of what he’d been forced to do to Sligo—something he would never get over as long as he lived.
A vast silence gathered in the room. Baugh seemed unable to speak.
“Commander,” Pendergast said in a quiet voice. “Over the course of my career, I’ve dealt with many murderous and psychotic human beings. But I have rarely seen anything as abhorrent as this cold-blooded, deliberate murder of a trusting and innocent horse, merely to satisfy your inflated ego.”
Finally, Baugh opened his mouth and managed to croak out: “What…are you going to do with those?”
“First, I will state my requirements. You will allow me to continue my investigation as I see fit, with your full cooperation. You will immediately rescind your termination of Dr. Gladstone’s involvement in the case and issue her a letter of apology, along with a check for $101.25 to pay for the buoy Lieutenant Lickspittle—I mean Duran—intentionally damaged. You will have no further contact with Dr. Gladstone. You will maintain the compartmentalization that I have created so that the mole on your staff no longer has access to information on my activities. Pursuant to that, I will tell you nothing of my work…and you will not inquire.”
The man’s mouth worked a little before the phrase all right emerged.
“As for the affidavits, I will keep them in a safe place in case further problems arise.”
He rose. Perelman did likewise: he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Pendergast had left the commander a quivering, heaving wreck.
Pendergast turned to Darby and said, in a suddenly loud voice: “Why, Lieutenant, you haven’t taken any notes! Shame on you!”
And with that he strode out of the office, Perelman following. They got into the car. Perelman crawled rather than hoisted himself into the passenger seat, taking deep breaths. He had never seen a confrontation like this before—so cold, so efficient, and so devastating. “Man, you play rough,” he finally said.
“It is not play,” said Pendergast. And only then, he allowed a small smile to crease his austere face. “Let us find a place with fresh stone crabs. Cracked cold, with mustard sauce. I have worked up quite an appetite.”
41
THE MORNING BUS from Acatán to the Mexican border was overloaded and stank of diesel fumes, and it had taken two hours to lurch and grind the twenty-five miles. At a sad border station it made a groaning stop, where everyone had to get off, show their papers to a Mexican border patrol agent, and get on another, but equally decrepit, bus that lumbered along the highway for another hour.
Finally, with a chuffing of brakes, the bus pulled into the town of La Gloria, Chiapas State, in southern Mexico. Coldmoon was the only one to exit, and no wonder, he thought as he looked around at the isolated town, with its limp palm trees and dust-caked bushes lining the dirt roadway. He slung his backpack over his shoulder as the bus pulled away. The driver had kindly let him off in front of Del Charro, at the outskirts of town, with its lone blinking neon light advertising Olmeca beer in the window, and the faint sound of ranchera music filtering out. He crossed the street and the parking lot outside the bar, almost empty at this time of day, and pushed open the door.
Inside, it was blessedly cool, and it took a moment for Coldmoon’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was no one within except the bartender and a teenage boy sitting o
n a barrel at the far end of the bar.
Coldmoon sauntered over, took a seat at the bar.
“What would you like, señor?” the bartender asked in Spanish.
“Olmeca, please.”
The bartender, a friendly-looking man with a colorful striped shirt and a cowboy hat, brought over the bottle. “Glass?”
“Just the bottle, thanks.”
He put it down and Coldmoon took it up. “You wouldn’t happen to be Señor Corvacho, would you?”
“I am.”
This was encouraging. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“And who might that be?”
“He calls himself El Monito.”
At this Corvacho seemed to go still, and he said, just a little too quickly, “Never heard of him.”
Coldmoon nodded. He took a sip of his beer—ice cold, surprisingly—while Corvacho made a show of wiping up the bar around him. Coldmoon could see the man had been deeply alarmed by the question and was trying to cover it up.
As he sipped the beer, Coldmoon considered what to do next. He could offer the man money, but he sensed somehow that would only frighten him more. Sometimes, he thought, the truth—or something close to it—worked better than an elaborate lie.
“I’m trying to find someone,” Coldmoon said, “came over in December from San Miguel Acatán, part of a group heading north to the U.S. Martina Ixquiac.” He took out a photo of her, given him by Ramona. “She disappeared and I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”
Corvacho barely glanced at it. “Don’t know anything about her.”
Again, the answer came too quickly.
“Look, friend, I’m working for her family, who are worried about her. I’m just trying to find her. I really need your help.”
“As I said, señor, I have never heard of this man, and I don’t know anything about the group you are talking about.” His voice shook from fear. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He finished up his nervous wiping and quickly disappeared into the back.
Christ, thought Coldmoon, he’s going to call El Monito now and warn him.
But then, through the bar’s window, he saw the bartender come around the corner of the bar and climb into an old pickup. He was going to warn him in person. And Coldmoon had no car, no way to follow. Coldmoon swore under his breath; El Monito was either going to make a run for it—or, just as likely, assemble a gang to return for a fight.
But as he watched, the truck didn’t leave. The man, it seemed, was trying to start it. A moment later the bartender got out and slammed the truck door, and Coldmoon could hear him coming into the back room behind the bar and rummaging around—with the rattle and clink of tools.
Sensing an opportunity, Coldmoon slipped off the stool and quickly went outside into the parking lot. The truck was a single cab, nothing in the back, no way to hide unless he could hang on to the chassis underneath—which would be suicide on these potholed dirt roads. What to do? The bartender would be back out any moment. There was one thing: a long shot. He peered through the cab window and made a mental note of the exact mileage on the odometer.
Then he ducked into the bar just as the bartender came back out to the parking lot with a couple of tools in his hand. He threw open the hood, messed with the battery cable, slammed it, got back in, started the engine with a roar, and peeled out of the lot in a cloud of dust.
Coldmoon checked his watch. “Another beer,” he said, signaling to the boy.
The boy shook his head. “Not old enough to serve beer.”
“Right,” said Coldmoon. “Sorry. Can you recommend a hotel?”
“There is only one, señor. Next to the plaza, the Sol y Sombra.”
“Thank you.”
Exactly thirty-two minutes later the bartender was back. He came in, red-faced and flustered. “You still here?”
Coldmoon gestured. “How much?”
“Fifty pesos.”
He put some money on the bar and left. As he passed the truck, he noted the odometer again, did a quick mental subtraction. The truck had gone 18.4 kilometers. He also made note of the nearly bald tires with just a hint of zigzag tread left.
Bag in hand, Coldmoon walked the quarter mile into the center of town. A small plaza was flanked by an old blue-washed adobe church on one side and the hotel on the other. He was glad to see a taxi sitting in front of the hotel, windows rolled down, the driver napping inside.
He went into the hotel, booked a room, and carried his bag upstairs. It wasn’t a bad room, spacious and sunny, with a bed, desk, and (thank God) A/C, which he turned on. The place also had a sluggish, intermittent semblance of Wi-Fi. He removed his iPad from the bag and loaded Google Maps, zeroing in on La Gloria. Fortunately, it was a village with not many roads radiating from it. There was a main road, Route 190, which passed by about five kilometers to the west. A dozen other roads led out from the town’s small grid of streets. They were all dirt and almost all seemed to go to outlying farms or ranch houses.
Using an online tool, Coldmoon measured 9.2 kilometers from the Del Charro out each of those roads.
Bingo. There was one, and only one, that matched within half a kilometer, and that ended at a farmhouse precisely 9.2 kilometers from Del Charro.
No suspicious-looking convoy of armed men had passed through the square headed for the bar while he made these calculations. Apparently, El Monito was going to wait for trouble to come to him.
He went downstairs and exited through the lobby to the street. He tapped on the cab’s window, rousing the driver.
“Are you available?”
“Of course, of course! Where do you want to go, señor?” asked the driver, sitting up and starting his car, astonished to have business.
“I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“All right.”
“Start by taking a right at the end of the plaza.”
He directed the cabdriver out of town, following the route he had identified. It led westward into a range of low hills, past tiny farm plots and small cattle ranches.
“Where are we going, señor?” the driver asked, becoming nervous.
“I’m looking to buy land.”
At one kilometer from the farmhouse in question, Coldmoon said, “I’ll get out here.”
“There’s nothing here.”
“There’s land here.”
By this time the driver was extremely nervous and trying not to show it. Coldmoon tipped him generously, got his business card, and arranged to be picked up at the same place in two hours’ time. He wasn’t sure if the driver would show up, but the man was probably frightened enough to do what he asked.
The cab pulled a U-turn and drove off. Coldmoon watched it go, and then he walked ahead and inspected the dusty road. There they were: fresh, almost bald tire prints with the faint zigzag.
Other than those prints—one set coming, another set going—there were no recent tire tracks visible.
He paused to think about how he was going to handle El Monito. He would certainly be armed. The man was a coyote, and they had a reputation for brutality equal to drug smugglers and gang members. And there might be—in fact probably were—several friends in the farmhouse. On top of all that, they’d be warned and on high alert. In short, he realized, he was about to do a completely stupid and dangerous thing.
He pondered this. He’d come a long way, the answers he wanted were in that farmhouse, and he was goddamned if he was going to walk away.
Locating his position on the iPad using Google Maps, he climbed a fence into a cornfield of dry stalks and began circling around to approach the house from an unexpected direction. The field offered excellent cover, and he was able to get within a hundred yards. He settled down to watch for a while, try to get a sense of how many people he would have to deal with. The farm was a small whitewashed building with a tin roof painted red, next to a sagging barn with holes in the roof and walls. An old Ford sat in the dirt parking area outside.
A half hour passed, a
nd Coldmoon saw no sign of life. The house looked deserted, but with the car and the lack of recent tire tracks he was pretty sure at least one person was inside. He needed to view the house from another angle, preferably closer, where he could see into the windows.
Circling further, he came up behind the barn, which would provide cover for a closer approach. He emerged from the corn and sprinted to the back side of the barn, pressing himself against the wall and removing his Browning. Edging along, he came to a dirty window and peered inside. The barn was dark, flecks of sunlight dappling the interior through the holes in the roof and walls, and it appeared to be empty. Coldmoon edged farther around to the door and slipped inside. He crossed the length of the barn and paused next to a sliding door that opened toward the house.
The door was open and he peered around the corner. The house remained silent—but watchful. There was an open dirt expanse he would have to cross to get inside. Did he dare make a run for it? The odds were good he hadn’t been seen. And even if he had, he would make a fast-moving target.
He broke cover and ran, dodging this way and that. The firing began almost immediately, wild shots kicking up dust on both sides of him. In a few seconds he had reached the back wall of the house and flattened himself against it. The firing had come from a window not five feet to his right.
Son of a bitch, now he was really screwed. He was probably outnumbered. All he had was his Browning versus their probable arsenal. Maybe he would get lucky and only the shooter would be inside.
“Hola, El Monito!” he called out.
Silence.
“I just want to talk!”
A voice came from the window—quavering and high. “I did everything you asked! For God’s sake, leave me alone!”
This was unexpected. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”
“¡Mira qué cabrón! Hurt me? You want to kill me!”
While he was yelling, Coldmoon took the opportunity to slip around the edge of the house to the door.
“You can keep the money,” the man shouted. “I don’t want it! Just leave me alone!”
Crooked River Page 22
