by J. A. Jance
For a while Rhonda and I wandered through the milling aisles. Finally, though, impatient to get out of there, I asked one of the vendors in he knew where I could find Zeke.
"Sure," he said, eying me suspiciously. I didn't fit the typical customer profile. "Next aisle over. Far end on the right."
We found Zeke's stall without any trouble, but the first thing I saw when we got there wasn't Zeke or his guns-it was the rattlesnake.
The snake, so similar to Ringo that they might have been full brothers, sat waist-high on a wobbly card table. Unlike Ringo, however, this one was dead, thoroughly dead, forever frozen by some taxidermist's art into a ferocious striking position. The curved fangs were bared, and the charcoal-colored body coiled back on itself, while the glassy eyes stared straight ahead-directly at me. Just looking at it was enough to prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. Instinctively, I dodged back.
"Purty, ain't he," growled a yellow-toothed man with a fat chew of tobacco stuffed in one cheek. His weighty peace symbol, three inches tall and made from hand-pounded silver, dangled on a frayed leather thong in front of a worn red flannel shirt that was stretched taut over a bulging midsection. "Bagged him myself last year up near Bumble Bee. I'll sell him to you cheap-a hun'red fifty. You won't do no better 'an that."
"No thanks," I said, still maintaining a wary distance.
Rhonda stepped closer and examined the snake curiously. "It does look like Ringo," she said before turning to the vendor. "Are you Zeke?" I had told her who we were looking for and why.
Zeke nodded slowly, giving her a lecherous up-and-down appraisal as he did so. "Sure am, ma'am. What can I do for you today? If'n you don't like snakes, how 'bout a Gila monster then?"
He paused long enough to spit an arc of brown tobacco juice over his shoulder where it landed unerringly in a two-pound Folgers coffee can several feet behind him. "Got me one of them, too. That'll run you 'bout tow hun'red even. Or somethin' a little smaller maybe-scorpions and centipedes. These here are s'posed to be plastic paperweights. Real classy if'n you work in an office."
The guy took off his hat and wiped a shiny bald pate with his red bandanna. When he put the Stetson back on, I noticed it was decorated with a rattlesnake skin hatband and several multicolored feathers. Considering his alligator boots and hand-tooled leather belt, this dusty overweight specimen was someone the Earth First folks should have picketed right along with all those fur-wearing, opera-going society matrons.
"We're more interested in guns," I said casually. He blinked. "I've got me some of them, too," he said tentatively. "What kind you lookin' for?"
He pointed me toward a second rickety table, this one covered with guns. The weapons, mostly aged specimens, were a collection of ten or so rifles and shotguns of various makes and models. Some were undoubtedly antique quality with ornate handmade inlay work on the stocks. Others were just plain old.
"Not any of these," I said, dismissing the entire table with a wave. "These are all too big. I was thinking of something smaller."
He looked at me closely.
"A friend told me about you," I added as a further reference, "a nameless, mutual friend. She said you had quite a collection, but if this is all you've got…"
Zeke, watching me closely, made up his mind. "I can't afford to put 'em all out," he said quickly. "Somebody might rip 'em off. Exactly what kind of gun might you be lookin' for, mister?"
"A handgun," I said. "Thirty-eight caliber."
"A. 38," he repeated thoughtfully. "I just might have one of them. It's small, though. Only a two-inch barrel."
"Small's fine," I said.
He nodded then called over his shoulder, "Hey, Carl. Would you keep an eye on my stuff for a while? I gotta go out to the parking lot for a minute."
Carl, a permanently sunburned blond, occupied a booth that advertised genuine Zuni hand-tooled silver jewelry, although Carl didn't look like any American Indian I'd ever seen. He waved a careless hand in response. "No prob, Zeke. Take your time."
Zeke led us through the parking lot to where a beat-out Volkswagen was parked. Someone with more patience than brains had carefully painted it so that it bore an uncommon resemblance to a mini-Greyhound bus. The inside, however, had been specially fitted with a set of custom mini-blinds which shut off the interior of the vehicle from any outside snooping.
Turning off an elaborate auto alarm system, Zeke unlocked the side door, heaved himself up into the van, and returned to the doorway carrying a heavy tool chest. With a grunt he set the chest down on the floorboard in front of us, opened one compartment, and extracted a cloth-wrapped package.
"This here one's a beaut," he said, lovingly untying the string and unwrapping the cloth to reveal a blued-steel Smith and Wesson Chief. "Five shots not six, and it comes complete with its own clip-on holster."
He handed me the gun with its stubby barrel, and I hefted the weapon in my hand. It was lighter than my old standard-frame. 38, but, depending on the kind of ammunition used, I knew it could be every bit as deadly. I snapped it apart and looked it over. It was clean and had been well cared for, either by Zeke or by its previous owner.
"Looks like you've handled one of them before," Zeke observed approvingly. "'Course, that thing ain't no good for shootin' rabbits."
"We both know what these are good for," I answered shortly. "I won't be hunting rabbits."
Zeke ducked his head and, with feigned interest, examined the scuffed toe of his cowboy boot. "Make you a good deal on it," he said at length, still looking down. "It's steal at one and a quarter."
"Is it a steal?" I asked.
Zeke looked up quickly, an offended frown on his face, "You mean is it hot? Hell no, man, it ain't hot. I don't fence shit for nobody. This is my very own private collection. I wouldn't be sellin' none of it, but the wife's been sick and had a lot of doctor's bills and all."
"Sure she has," I responded, "but this gun's not worth a dime over sixty bucks, so stop jacking me around."
Zeke yelped like he'd been stuck with a hot poker. After several rounds of negotiating back and forth, we finally settled on eighty-five dollars, cash-and-carry. Ten minutes later, without benefit of anybody's three-day waiting period, we were on our way.
Once we were beyond Zeke's earshot, Rhonda Attwood burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" I asked.
"Remind me to take you along if I ever decide to sell my Fiat. Now that I've seen you in action with Zeke, I'll bet you can handle car salesmen, too."
It's nice to be appreciated.
CHAPTER 18
On Zeke's advice we stopped by an army-surplus/ammo shop on Thomas Road and purchased a box of Remington 125-grain semi-jacket hollow-point shells. Hollow points aren't armor piercing, not much good for shooting through cars or doors, but when they land in a human body, they stay there. It's the kind of ammunition that keeps medical examiners in business.
Rhonda, walking with me through the shop, didn't question my purchase of the shells, but she raised an eyebrow when I asked for earplugs.
"Target practice," I explained as the clerk went to get them. "Guns are like women, you know. They all come with the same basic equipment, but you need to field-test each one individually to know exactly how it works."
"Right," she said, responding in a lighthearted, bantering tone. "And not all field-testers are created equal."
I was still worrying about that one when we left the store. As we drove south on Interstate 10, the extra ammunition was stowed in the trunk, but my new used. 38, loaded but still untried, rested in its leather holster, clipped securely inside the waistband of my pants and concealed under the folds of my sport jacket.
I hadn't bothered to ask anyone in authority if my Washington license to carry a concealed weapon worked in Arizona because I didn't want to know the answer. Instead, I welcomed the presence of the gun, the slight pressure of its shape molded against the flesh of my gut. I was armed once more, carrying a Smith and Wesson. For the first time in weeks, I felt compl
etely dressed.
Above us the sky changed from metropolitan smoggy, hazy blue to brilliant azure as we cruised past a rocky citadel Rhonda told me was called Picacho Peak. She kept up a running commentary as we drove, pointing out the names of Indian reservations, mountain ranges, and small towns with the glib geographical ease of a native. As I listened to Rhonda's engaging patter, I wondered if she herself was aware of the defense mechanism at work, if she realized that the constant barrage of small talk kept other, more intimate or hurtful subjects at bay.
South of Tucson she insisted we stop at a truck stop, The Triple T, for coffee and hot apple pie. Forty miles south of there, we turned off I-10 near a place called Benson and headed down Highway 90, a secondary road leading to Sierra Vista and Fort Huachuca.
The farther south we had driven, the more distance I had put between myself and Ironwood Ranch, the better I felt. The same didn't hold true for Rhonda. Once we turned off the interstate, her travelogue faltered and she fell strangely silent.
"How will we find out where they live?" she asked at last.
"I'm a detective, remember?" I countered with a grin, but Rhonda was beyond the reach of humor, so I answered more seriously.
"With any kind of luck, Guy Owens will be listed in the phone book. That's what they teach us at the police academy, you know. Check the phone book first. Let your fingers do the walking."
I glanced at Rhonda again, but she didn't crack a smile. Her face was pale, lips compressed, brows knit in a frown.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Where did you go?"
"What if I convince the father to change his mind and then Michelle decides she doesn't want the baby?" Rhonda asked.
"You'll have to cross that bridge when you come to it," I told her. "But remember, you shouldn't be able to force her to have the baby any more than her father can force her not to. It's Michelle's decision, not yours, not his."
She didn't answer for a long time while miles of blacktop spun away under the moving tires.
"Yes," she said finally, sounding at last resigned to the idea that ultimate control for the decision was beyond her. "I suppose you're right," she added reluctantly.
We drove the rest of the way into Sierra Vista in virtual silence.
At first glance Sierra Vista, all fast-food franchises and gas stations, seemed like a blotch of urban blight spilling out across the desert from the main gate of Fort Huachuca. I turned left down Fry Boulevard and stopped at the first gas station I saw, a self-serve Circle K. The phone book had long since disappeared from the booth outside, but inside I found a frayed, dog-eared edition. The book contained listings for all of Cochise County, and Sierra Vista was close to the back. Sure enough, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens had both a listed number and a listed address-141 Quail Run Drive.
"You want to call him and tell him we're coming?" I asked, when I returned to the car.
Rhonda shook her head. "Let's just show up," she said.
It turned out that Quail Run Drive was actually outside the Sierra Vista city limits. It was part of a development called Desert View Estates and set back from Highway 91, which ran south along a range of mountains Rhonda informed me were called the Huachucas. The roads in Desert View Estates were gravel rather than paved, and the houses, on seemingly huge lots, were set far back from the street.
We found 141 with no difficulty. It was a low red-brick structure with thick arches across the front. The arches and the recessed windows beyond them gave the house a sleepy Spanish look. Inside I caught a glimmer of somebody moving through the shadowy interior.
"At least somebody's home," Rhonda said, noting the Isuzu Trooper parked in front of the house as well as a sporty blue CRX sharing space in the carport with a decade-old maroon Cutlass.
"He may have company," I said. "By my count that's two more cars than drivers."
I pulled to a stop behind the Isuzu. The windows had been tinted so dark they were practically black. That's something that makes sense in the Arizona desert but not in sun-starved Seattle. The plates said Sonora, Mexico, so presumably Guy Owens did have company.
Without waiting for me, Rhonda got out and hurried to the door. She rang the bell, but by the time I joined her, no one had answered.
"Try again," I said. "I'm almost positive I saw someone moving around in there as we drove up."
She rang the bell again. Eventually, after what seemed like a long wait, the dead bolt clicked and the door handle turned. A haggard Guy Owens stood in the doorway.
"Sorry, Sue," he said, looking directly at Rhonda. "I won't be able to go to lunch with you and John. I'm not feeling well."
Sue??? Rhonda had opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped, stunned by what he had said. I could understand her confusion. Was this a genuine case of mistaken identity, or was something else going on?
"Wait a minute," she said, moving toward the door. "You don't understand. I've got to…"
Guy Owens caught my eye. There was no mistaking the warning shake of his head, but I didn't know what to do about it. Following Guy's lead, I quickly took hold of Rhonda's arm.
"Come on, Sue," I said, trying to pull her away. "We'll talk to him tomorrow when he's feeling better."
She looked up at me questioningly, but was allowing me to lead her back toward the car when a man emerged from the shadows behind Guy Owens holding an AK-47 assault rifle. He motioned for us to come inside. Just then a second man came loping around to the front of the house from the carport. The second one was wearing military fatigues.
At first I thought he might be there to help us, but I was wrong. He was carrying a 9-mm semi-automatic which he trained on me all the while shielding it with his body from the view of people on the roadway. The handgun may have been more subtle and more readily concealed than the AK-47, but it was sure as hell as lethal. Now we were trapped between the two.
"Looks like you and the lady better go on inside," the man with the 9-mm said, prodding me forward with the barrel of the gun.
He had Hispanic features and a decided accent. He was slight and scrawny. Hand to hand, he wouldn't have lasted a minute with me, but with the gun…Without argument, I went inside.
"They're friends of mine," Owens was explaining to the man with the rifle. "We were supposed to go out to brunch."
The importation of AK-47 assault rifles had been banned by the Bush Administration. Unfortunately, the old adage is proving true-if arms are outlawed, only outlaws will have arms. The crooks carried AK-47s long before the ban and they carry them now that the ban is in effect. Up against them, my puny little five-shot. 38 was nothing more than a glorified peashooter.
"These friends of his sure as hell ain't going to brunch now, are they, Paco." The second man grinned an evil, gold-toothed grin and strutted his way into the house, shutting the door behind him. "Brunch? No. A little ride? Si. And maybe after that, a long siesta."
Rhonda looked anxiously from face to face, trying to make sense of what had happened. "I don't understand. What's going on here?"
They've got Michelle," Owens answered, his voice thick with defeat. "They brought me back here to get the money."
"What money?" I asked.
"Money Joey Rothman evidently stole from these people. Or maybe it was plain old-fashioned extortion. I can't tell which. However he got it, Joey left the money with Michelle for safekeeping."
"Is Michelle all right?" Rhonsa asked.
Owned nodded. "I guess so. For now."
"Shut up," the man with the semiautomatic snapped.
Paco looked at his partner questioningly. "Did you find it, Tony?"
Tony nodded. "I think so. Right behind the dryer, just like she said. I was about to pick it up when the doorbell rang. Maybe the lady here would like to go get it for me while the rest of us wait."
He waved his weapon in Rhonda's direction, and she shrank away from it and him.
Guy Owens nodded reassuringly toward an open doorway. "The laundry room is just beyond the kitchen," he said.
"Michelle said she hid the briefcase behind the clothes dryer."
Rhonda nodded mutely then disappeared through the doorway, while Tony stationed himself and the semiautomatic near enough to the opening that he could keep an eye on her as well as on us. He seemed to be in charge, but I still wasn't quite sure.
Cop or crook, in this business overconfidence can be a deadly mistake. So far, it hadn't occurred to either one of these gun-toting clowns that the people coming to take Guy Owens to a Sunday brunch might possibly be armed and dangerous themselves. Owens had faked them into believing his story, that we were nothing more than casual, harmless friends, and they hadn't bothered to search us. Considering the difference in firepower, it was a small mistake, but a mistake nonetheless, enough to give me an inkling of hope.
I tried to catch Owens' eye to see if he had any ideas, but he too was watching the doorway, waiting for Rhonda to reappear. She did, carrying a man's thick briefcase. Her face had gone deathly white, and I was afraid for a moment that she was going to faint. Instead, she stopped in the doorway and dropped the briefcase from knee level. It flopped onto the carpeting and fell over, but it didn't pop open.
"Come over here and open it, Paco," Tony said. "Let's make sure his little girl isn't jerking us around. There's supposed to be money in there, and some kind of paper as well."
It was issued like an order, and Paco obeyed without question. Putting his AK-47 on the floor beside him, he knelt and fumbled with the lock.
"Shit, man," he said after several futile attempts. "I can't. It's one of those damn combination locks. Want me to shoot it open?"
"Don't," Rhonda said. "I can open it. At least I think I can."
Surprised, we all looked at her.
"It's JoJo's," she explained. "I gave it to him for Christmas years ago when they were first coming out with the combination locks. Of course, if he's changed the combination…"
