Scorpion Rain

by David Cole

  Michelle’s cell phone rang. She listened to a very quick message, snapped the cell shut with a loud click.

  “I agree, Laura. We’ve got to move from here.”

  “Good God,” Don said, “look at the TV.”

  On CNN, Jo Kanakaredes was talking into a microphone, the Nogales truck border crossing behind her. I ran to the set, fumbled with the remote, couldn’t find the volume control, located the tiny volume buttons on the front of the set, but by the time I got sound going, Jo’s face disappeared.

  “Stay tuned,” said the Chinese anchorwoman in Atlanta. “Kidnapping, ransom emails, computer hacking…a horror story from the Mexican border.”

  She faded into a car commercial.

  “That fool,” Michelle said. “She could have helped us by not saying anything. Stupid. She’s the kind of person who only does what suits herself, the kind of person who never loses a chance to miss an opportunity to do something right.”

  My bag packed, I sat and waited.

  And then we caught a break.

  “Victorio!,” Michelle said excitedly. “Have you ever worked with a client named Victorio?”

  Don and I shook our heads.

  “I remember the names of all my clients,” he said.

  “Me too,” I added. “What have you got?”

  “Our own computer hackers have been working on the digital picture of the mountains, the very first picture I showed you. We traced it to an Internet service provider in the state of Sonora, a company that only uses satellite uplinks. The account is in the name of Victorio Reyes Talkalai.”

  Don played his keyboard like a piano, moving from one Internet search engine to another, looking for any lookup listing for the name. But after a dozen searches, he pointed at the monitor.

  “No address, no bank account, no phone numbers, no criminal records or driver’s license. But…all three of those names are Apache.”

  “Wheatley?” I said.

  “I admit, it’s a stretch. But it is a connection.”

  Michelle’s cell phone rang. She listened, then went to her laptop, set up across the room, and typed in something.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  As fast as I could move, Don had his wheelchair there first.

  “It’s a BLOG,” he said. “A Web Log.”

  “What is that?”

  “Online diaries,” I explained. “Journals. It’s become quite a fad in the last two years. Cancer patients, families of lost children, artists, teeny-boppers, anybody who wants to put words out there for anybody to read. Some have web cameras.”

  Every web log entry began with the word “sestrichka.”

  “What is that word?” Don asked. How do you pronounce it? Ses tricka?”

  “It’s Russian,” Michelle said. “Ses treech ka. It means sister. The small ‘v’ at the bottom must be for ‘Victorio.’”

  “But Apaches aren’t Russians,” I protested. “What have we got?”

  “We’ve got Mexico,” Don said. “And we’ve got a link open to whoever this guy is. Michelle, you have your people work backward. There may be a connection in Los Angeles between somebody named Victorio and the name Stephen Dobbs. If you find any links, check for sisters. I’ll work the email and chat connections if Victorio contacts us again—he’ll never know that it’s me at the keyboard and not Laura.”

  “And what will you do?” Michelle asked me.

  I’d already decided.

  “I’m going to Mexico to help Kyle.”

  40

  “On the fourth day…” The man’s lips moved, but he couldn’t talk.

  We waited, but he just stood there, a U.S. marshal behind me. The man kept his legs tight together, hands clasped in front of his genitals, abjectly afraid and ashamed. He’d seen the TV reports, he’d decided to tell the police that he, too, had been kidnapped, but I could tell he now wished he’d just kept silent.

  The Huey’s rotor ticked over, its turboshaft engine quite a roar even though we were at least a hundred feet away.

  “I mean, my God…why should I talk to you people?”

  His two-thousand-dollar Armani suit was no shield for his anger and fear.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I told him.

  “You want me to…to relive…”

  Tears actually ran down his cheeks, saturated his trimmed beard.

  “No,” I said to Michelle. “You deal with this. All I want to know is what he remembers of the geography of the camp. Please make sure he understands, I don’t care what he went through.”

  “He can’t tell just a part of it,” Michelle said. “If he lets one single thing out, he’ll be shattered, he’ll have to tell it all. Can’t you see that?”

  I picked up my two bags, ready to get on the chopper.

  “I mean…do you think that anything I have to say has any importance, don’t you understand what it will do to my business?”

  “Ah,” Michelle said. “So it’s not really personal. It’s just business.”

  “I mean…you’re not God, you’re not capable of understanding.”

  I walked ten feet away with Michelle.

  “He’s trying to rebuild his life, trying to forget,” I said. “I’m not sure you’ll get anything useful from him. You’ve got nothing to threaten him with that even begins to compare with actually identifying that he’s been kidnapped.”

  “What should we do?”

  “He needs more time than we can provide him. I’m telling you, he won’t give you anything useful until he can face up to whatever he used to be.”

  “I’ll give him time…until you land, I’ll give him that much time. Then I’ll get every detail I can to feed to you.”

  She squeezed her mouth together, clenched her hands into a single fist. I felt sorry for him, but I couldn’t be bothered about his feelings.

  “Okay,” I said. “You know how to contact me.”

  “You take care, girl.” She touched my hands, my cheek, impulsively hugged me. “I want to see you again.”

  The chopper lifted off and immediately swung into a tight clockwise turn. I could see the man standing on the tarmac, thinking it was over because I’d left, not realizing that I was the least of his problems.

  I sat alone in the cargo compartment. The sergeant up front in the left seat had gestured at a pair of headphones hanging near my head, but I didn’t put them on. Both side doors were open, and the pilot had a habit of wiggling the Huey from side to side, probably thinking he’d give me a thrill. I just watched the desert floor.

  We passed quickly through the upland area southwest of Tucson and crossed miles and miles of semi-desert grasslands. Nearing the border, the pilot brought the Huey down to about one hundred feet. I could see the three-wire stranded fence, cut through or driven over in many places. He circled over a white marker stone, and the sergeant again motioned for me to put on the headset.

  “I’ve got to circle here for a few minutes,” the pilot said. “I can’t legally cross into Mexico until I get clearance.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up sign and removed the headset.

  Below, a U.S. Border Patrol Grand Cherokee came up from the east, a long rooster-tail of dust streaming behind it until the driver braked and stopped almost directly below us. I could see heavy wire caging over the entire window area of the cab, protection against rocks thrown by coyotes.

  A uniformed man opened the driver-side door, stood on the doorsill, leaning against the roof as he operated a handheld radio. I held the headset against one ear.

  “Uh, roger that,” the pilot said. “We are certified good to go.”

  “Take care, bro.”

  The Border Patrolman was climbing back into his Jeep as the pilot hung quickly to the left and took a heading almost due south. We rose to several thousand feet, and I could see Nogales off to the east, rapidly disappearing as we crossed into lower Colorado desert land.

  Rough, barren of almost any vegetation except creosote bushes, chaparr
al, mesquite, and stunted organ pipe cactus.

  “Uh, ma’am…you listening, ma’am?”

  I nodded.

  “You can key the mike, ma’am. Pull down the stalk, it’s just above your left earpiece.” I set it in front of my mouth. “I have orders for one of two destinations, ma’am. Right now, I’m on a heading to set you down near Benjamin Hill.”

  I shook my head, remembered the mike.

  “No. Farther south. It has to be farther south.”

  “Roger that. I have, uh, coordinates for an area about fifty clicks west northwest of Hermosillo.”

  The sergeant put a plastic-coated flight plan in front of the pilot, who ran a gloved finger along the map until he found what he wanted.

  “Due south of Sierra Batepito, due west of Sierra Lopez. It’s a crossroads, uh, it’s called…Chapala.”

  “Chapala” came out sounding like “chapped hands.”

  “Is that where Kyle…where I’m to meet my party?”

  “That’s affirmative, ma’am. He’s got a transponder, we’ve climbed high enough so we just started picking up the signal. But it’s going to be another thirty, forty minutes. You nice and easy back there, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coffee in the thermos, clipped on the bulkhead to your left. Sandwiches in that aluminum storage box under your seat. Roast beast, I think.”

  “Thanks.”

  I could see the two of them smiling at each other, and the pilot wiggled the collective just enough to drop about a hundred feet, thinking it would frighten me. Ben Yazzie had said something to a chopper pilot, I tried to remember. The time we flew into Canyonlands National Park to find a dead Hopi girl buried in a cave.

  “Feels like you need some rotor tracking,” I said into the mike.

  They looked at each other, startled.

  “One per rev, can’t you feel the vibration? Better get your mechanics on it when you return to base.”

  I took off the headset.

  I had no idea if what I said made any sense, but by their looks, it did. The sergeant got out a manual and started running a checklist.

  Ben Yazzie. My god, how long ago was that.

  My first partner, collecting bounty money. I’d locate the fugitive using a computer from my trailer in Tuba City, Ben would find him, we’d split the reward.

  Ben Yazzie. Barrel-chested, banty-legged Navajo. Once a lover, once a thief, once…my god, how long ago was that, how many men since then?

  Lost in thought, I recoiled when the sergeant tapped me on the knee and motioned to the headset. I put it on.

  “Ma’am, I have a priority radio message? From a Mister Ralph? If you’re ready, I can pipe it to your headset?”

  No more macho fun with the lady, I noticed. All his sentences rose toward question marks at the end.

  “Roger that,” I said with a smile.

  “You are good to go.”

  “Laura.”

  “Don?”

  “Not much to tell you, but it’s something. The kidnap victim, the guy you talked to at the airport. When Michelle drove him to the U.S. Attorney’s office, he said he’d tell her anything if she’d just take him home.”

  “And?”

  “As I said, not much meat in this. He was held captive for twenty-three days. He was so used to giving orders that it took him a long time to realize that he had absolutely no control over the kidnappers. A day later, the money transferal went through and they released him. Okay. Summary report. Side of a mountain, he says. No memory of how far up the mountain, knew it was on the eastern slope because he could see the sunrise. No memory of what else he saw, looking in any direction. Five men running the camp. Two other prisoners when he first came, three more arrived while he was there. Four left while he was there. He was given a simple choice. Pay the ransom within thirty days or die. He was told that he was in good physical condition, that his body parts would bring over three hundred thousand on the black market. After the first week, when he still thought he could gain control, they finally told him that they could bring in a surgical team and remove one of his kidneys and he’d still be alive. That’s it.”

  “Where did they release him?”

  “Blindfolded. Walked a few hours, then in the back of some vehicle, dirt roads, car had to go slowly for at least half an hour. He was dumped at a Pemex gas station on the outskirts of Hermosillo.”

  “Any word from Jack Zea?”

  “Nothing. Well, she did call. But only to say she was still working it. Where are you?”

  I looked at the desert floor, looked away.

  “In the middle of nowhere,” I said. “I’ll be meeting Kyle in half an hour.”

  “Call you again. On the cell.”

  “Roger,” I said, but he’d already disconnected. The pilot left the line open for another minute or two, static hissing in my ear.

  In the middle of nowhere, I thought. And no idea where I was going, had no idea of…Jesus Christ, the man was tapping my leg again.

  I put on the headset.

  “Ma’am. I have a communication from the Mexican…”

  He clicked off, I could see his lips moving.

  “…Federales, a Colonel Rey Villaneuva?”

  Colonel? Rey must have pushed a lot of buttons. I nodded.

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Laura!”

  “Rey, where are you?”

  “Twenty kilometers north of Hermosillo. Those two cars ran some roadblocks, tried some back roads but they didn’t have four-wheel—”

  “Was Meg with them?”

  “No. There was a woman, there…she…”

  Breaking up. A new voice came on the radio.

  “Switch to tac four point two.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot said. “We’re good to go.”

  “Laura?”

  This time Rey’s voice was stronger.

  “Yes.”

  “They tried to shoot their way through another roadblock. We killed all but one guy, and this woman who’s been made to look like Meg. She doesn’t know anything, was just paid to switch places with Meg back in Nogales. In the shootout, two officers got killed, so the one guy, he got kinda worked over when he wouldn’t talk. So we—”

  “Rey…are you saying that Meg was in Nogales?”

  “Yes. I told you all along, it was a hostage situation.”

  But, I thought, but how did I get a digital photograph of Meg, supposedly taken in a totally different place and at a different time?

  “These were all people from the Peraza cartel. They’ve been running a kidnapping ring…I don’t know anything about that, but somebody had already agreed to pay for Meg. They made the switch, somewhere in Nogales. A guy took Meg, this woman went with the kidnappers.”

  “This man…the one that’s still alive, does he know where Meg is?”

  “No.”

  It was a sob of despair.

  “Rey. Listen to me.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “There’s a chance,” I said, “there’s a small chance we might still be able to find her, to get her back.”

  “What do I do? How can I help?”

  “Get a heavy-duty four-wheel-drive vehicle. Go to a small place called Chapala. You’ll have to get directions. It’s west of Hermosillo, but from what I can see of the country, it’s really off-road driving.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a helicopter.”

  “In a…what?”

  “I’m flying to meet some people. We might know how to find Meg. I’m landing at Chapala in about fifteen minutes. If I can’t wait for you—”

  “You have to wait for me.”

  “Beyond my control. If I can’t wait, I’ll make sure somebody watches for you, tells you how to find me. Rey. I’ve got to stop talking, I can see we’re going to come down and I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “There’s a chance?” he said. “What kind of a chance, to find her?”

  “Slim,” I said, remov
ing the headset and signaling the pilot to cut off the radio channel. Slim to none, that was the chance.

  But I had to play it out. I had to contact Don, privately. But the Fujiyama wouldn’t connect to him, and I’d have to wait to see if he knew the answer to the mystery photograph, which couldn’t be true in terms of time, but which existed.

  In the middle of nowhere, I thought again, and getting deeper fast.

  41

  The chopper set down several hundred feet from two small, blue tents. Helping me down from the cargo bay, the sergeant looked around, apprehensive.

  “There’s nobody here,” he said. “Ma’am, you’re all alone, if you stay.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “We can’t wait here, with you.”

  “Yes. I understand, it’s okay.”

  “Ma’am, this is the godawful middle of nowhere. What’s your armament?”

  “I don’t have any guns, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’d leave you my sidearm. But…”

  “No guns. I’ll be all right. I’ve got this.”

  Holding up the Fujiyama.

  “There are bandidos down here,” he said. “A woman shouldn’t be alone.”

  What answer is there to that kind of unenlightened bullshit? I picked up my two bags and started hiking to the tents.

  “At least let me leave you some water,” he shouted. “The sandwiches.”

  Shaking my head, not looking back, I reached the tents. I heard the Huey’s turbo roar, the rotors turning over fast, and it lifted off. The pilot circled above me twice and then he headed straight north.

  I was alone.

  Checking both the tents, I couldn’t find any note from Kyle. Each tent had two sleeping mattresses and some cooking gear, but nothing of real value had been left behind. I’d thought there’d be at least some water, but could only find a half-eaten package of spicy Cheetos. If I ate them, I’d really get thirsty.

  I waited.

  The chopper had passed what must have been the village of Chapala, a small collection of buildings, ramadas, and a pen for three goats. Kyle’s camp was several miles to the southwest. There was no road, no dirt tracks, no sign of vehicles, but it was an area of desert hardpan, and I knew if I looked carefully I’d see marks of the Range Rovers.