by Don Travis
“Well, nobody else was driving it. That Porsche was his pride and joy. Unless….” He paused with his hand on the door handle of the cruiser. “Yeah, he’d let Dana take it out for a spin.” He stared at me like a man clutching a lifeline. “Maybe he’s holed up in a motel somewhere waiting for Dana to come back with a six-pack and burgers.”
Delfino frowned. “That car wasn’t out for beer and burgers. It was hauling ass to outrun the sheriff’s deputies. Took evasive action.”
“That doesn’t sound like Lando. He faces things squarely. If it was something he couldn’t handle, he knew the old man would. Although,” he admitted, “he doesn’t make a habit of relying on Papa’s influence. Something’s not right.”
“Would Norville react the same way?”
Aggie pursed his lips. “Yeah, he’d hide behind my brother if Lando decided to hide behind Anthony P. Unless they had a falling out and Dana took the car, that is. Either way that argues Lando wasn’t in the car when it went over the precipice.”
With that, Aggie folded his six-two frame into the front passenger’s seat of the police cruiser, leaving the back for me. Delfino had the lights and siren going before we were out of the parking lot.
The run to the gorge wasn’t far, but by the time we got there, a crowd had collected. Delfino parked and muscled his way to the middle of the bridge with the two of us in tow.
“What’s the situation?” he asked a sheriff’s deputy wearing sergeant’s stripes. Without waiting for an answer, he introduced us to the fair-skinned, sunburned man.
“Good to meet you,” Sergeant Hatton said. “Wish it was under better circumstances. Things are still flexible at the moment. We found an unconscious kid over on the other side of the bridge. Looks like he managed to get out of the Porsche before it went over.”
“Have you identified him?” Aggie asked.
“Local kid. Neighboring village.”
“What does he say?”
“Nothing yet. Knocked out cold. The meat wagon’s with him now.” Hatton threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the west side of the bridge.
“What about the car?” I asked. “What are the recovery plans?”
“We have a mountain rescue unit, but it’s a volunteer outfit. It’ll take them a while to assemble their men and equipment. Quickest way is to put rafts in the water at the John Dunn Bridge west of Arroyo Hondo. Some of them may want to tackle the cliff.”
“I want to go with the climbers,” Aggie said immediately. “I’m qualified. I’ve been up Hood three times.”
“That’s up to them. They work as a team. But it’s gonna be a couple of hours before anything gets going.” He glanced into the gorge and sighed. “A delay’s not gonna bother them none. Nobody coulda survived a bounce like that.”
“Let’s go see what’s happening with the kid they found,” I suggested.
We picked up a newspaper reporter and photographer on our way across the bridge. Hatton told them where to get off in no uncertain terms, so they resorted to tagging along behind us. Undoubtedly there were already television crews on their way from Colorado and Albuquerque. Such a spectacular event was going to get some publicity, and judging from the information available when I’d googled the Alfano name, things would get worse.
The boy they found rolled up against the fence where the car had gone over the edge was already in the ambulance. Delfino, Aggie, and I took turns crawling inside to take a look at him.
“Do you know him?” I asked Delfino.
“Yeah. Name’s Cruz. Family lives in El Segundo where the coordinates from the GPS put the Porsche this morning. He and his brothers are a pain in the butt, but they’re not bad kids. Although that probably explains why the Porsche was running. Stolen.”
Hatton rejoined us. “Medic says the kid’s probably got a fractured skull. No telling when he’ll wake up. You recognize him, Gil? He’s one of Mateo Cruz’s boy’s, right?”
“Yeah. The one they call Joe.”
“Man, I don’t like the way this is turning around,” Hatton said. Then he gave an apologetic wave in Aggie’s direction. “Sorry, don’t mean I hope it’s your brother down there, but not too happy it might be locals either.” Hatton removed his hat and ran a freckled hand through his thinning reddish hair. “Well, that don’t change what’s gotta be done.”
As the two law enforcement officers discussed the situation, I watched Aggie go over to study the area where the Porsche had breached the fence. A moment later he walked out onto the bridge to stare over the edge, assessing the situation like a rock climber. We tagged along behind. The river far below us looked the same as always—except for the tiny, shattered automobile lying wheels-up at the edge of the water.
“I’ve got my climbing gear in the plane,” Aggie said. “I usually carry it when I fly. I’m gonna get it and go over the edge. If somebody will lend me a walkie-talkie, I can stay in contact.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, son,” Hatton said. “I’m willing to bet you ain’t got enough rope for a haul like that one. It’s 650 feet to the bottom if it’s an inch.”
“And that river doesn’t look like much from up here, but it’s white water down there. Class IV rapids,” Delfino added.
“I have enough rope to get me from one pitch to the other—one rock shelf to the next. I’ll leave rope and carabiners in the pitons to make coming back up easier. Are there any bolts?” he asked, meaning permanent anchor points drilled into the rock.
“Not around here,” Delfino responded. “And you’re not gonna be able to bring any… uh, bodies out vertically. Not without a whole S&R team. Too much scree and flakes and too many overhangs.”
“The white-water guys will get them out on rafts, Mr. Alfano,” Hatton said.
“Okay, but if I get down there, at least we’ll know, and I can call the old man. Actually, I’ll let you do that, BJ, since I’ll be at the bottom of that crack in the ground.”
“You’ll need someone to belay,” I said. “I’ll go down with you.”
“Have you done any climbing?”
“Some,” I hedged.
Delfino sighed. “I’ll go. I’ve been down and back a couple of times. Let’s go get your gear. You got enough for me, or do I need to go get my own?”
Aggie took in the short man’s broad shoulders, deep chest, and bulging arms and smiled. “Got plenty for both of us. Let’s go.”
HATTON AND I stationed ourselves at a pedestrian overlook platform in the middle of the bridge where kids liked to heave rocks over the railing to watch the aerial missiles strike the water below. It was a dangerous practice since rafters regularly rode this section of the river.
Aggie and Delfino began the climb from a sit-down start where the Porsche had breached the fence. Aggie went first; Delfino acted as belay slave. I glanced to the west the moment they went over and was relieved to see Jim had been right. The monsoon storm had turned north. Weather wouldn’t be a factor in the recovery effort.
After an hour of rappelling and traversing, the climbers had covered less than a third of the distance to the bottom. It was slow and treacherous going, but they worked well as a team. Aggie gave clear, crisp climbing commands, and the cop reacted decisively. So far as we could tell, neither had taken a false step so far.
“You ever go down there?” I watched the climbers through a set of borrowed binoculars.
“Once,” Hatton answered, “and that was enough for me. Course, that was fifteen years ago. If I tried it now, I’d likely take the quick way.” He adjusted his hat to protect his already burned neck. At this altitude the sun could sneak up on a man and roast him alive before he knew it. “Been through the gorge by raft a couple of times,” he added.
“You think those two will reach the site before the rafters make it down the river?”
“Probably. Those boys gotta collect their team and drive up to the bridge at Arroyo Hondo before they can even put rubber in the water.” Hatton winced. “Oh shit! Alfano slipped, but Gil’
s got him.”
I watched in horror as Aggie bounced at the end of a dynamic rope—a strong cord with slightly elastic properties to take some of the shock out of a fall. Oh, Lord! Would I have to tell Alfano both of his sons were gone?
But Aggie was an experienced climber; he kept his cool, dead hanging to minimize the strain on Delfino. The powerful little man bowed his back and took his companion’s weight. Delfino’s muscles bunched as he lowered Aggie hand over hand to a small outcropping. Both Hatton and I let out sighs of relief as their calm voices echoed off the sides of the gorge.
“Sure hope they have enough rope,” I said.
Hatton nervously fingered his walkie-talkie but prudently stayed off it. The last thing the two climbers needed was the distraction of a useless call from spectators.
“If not, they’ll take the last couple of lengths with them to the bottom.” Hatton turned to face me, fanning himself with his hat. “Don’t seem like Alfano believes he’s gonna find his brother down there. What do you think?”
“Don’t have any idea. I don’t know the kid. Aggie does. But from the air, it didn’t seem like the driver was very experienced. The car was too erratic. There was no good reason for them to go over the cliff. An experienced driver would have started braking a quarter of a mile before he did.”
“Drunk. Drugs. Not paying attention. Joyriding,” the deputy cited possible explanations.
I couldn’t find fault with any of them. Nonetheless, they didn’t ring true somehow.
FOUR HOURS later the two climbers were mere specks far below us. It was difficult to see much of them even with the binoculars.
“It won’t be long now.” Hatton glanced around. “Shoulda waited until morning. We’re gonna lose the light pretty soon.”
The low-lying sun still bathed the bridge in its waning heat, but the gorge was now in deep shadow. When the two men had begun their descent, we could clearly see the river; now all we caught was white water where the current broke over rocks. Thank goodness both of them carried strong torches. Soon the radio crackled; it was Delfino saying they were at the bottom.
“Had a little trouble there in a couple of places,” Hatton joshed.
“Nah, it was a cakewalk. Well, except for a rattler we had to chase outa the way once. Now all we gotta do is get to the car. It’s about a hundred yards downstream.”
“In the water?” Hatton asked.
“No. On rocks… mostly. Rear end’s in the current. Sweet Jesus! This thing’s all tore to pieces.”
We watched two pinpoints of light move uncertainly to the south. It was obvious when they reached the Porsche; both merged into one. Five minutes later the radio crackled again. This time it was Aggie.
“BJ, it’s not them. It’s not Lando or Norville. Christ, man, it’s hard to tell who they are, but it’s not my brother or his friend.”
“How do you know?” Hatton demanded.
“Too small. Clothes all wrong. One of them’s more or less recognizable. The other one’s got a big scar on his left arm. An old one.”
There was a click on the other end, and then we heard Delfino’s voice again. “Hatton, better go give old Mateo the bad news. I think he just lost half his family. And, Mr. Vinson, Mr. Alfano wants you to phone his father in case this thing goes out over the air waves.”
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Chapter 7
I CALLED Alfano from the bridge as soon as we knew the identities of the victims, but the conversation was short and unsatisfactory since there was little to tell my client except that although his son’s car lay at the bottom of a deep chasm, Lando and Dana were still missing. I hitched a ride with Hatton as far as the airport to rent a car while he went to see the dead boys’ family to deliver the tragic news and learn what he could of the Cruz kids’ recent acquisition of a very expensive automobile.
I had collected my lend-lease Chevrolet and started to leave the airport when Jim Gray’s Skycatcher caught my eye. Although I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd at the bridge, he’d apparently hung around for the outcome. I made a detour to the plane and asked him to stay in Taos in case his aircraft was needed. Jim’s more of a pilot than a businessman, so he declined my offer to cover his time. We piled into the rental and drove to the takeout spot near the Taos Junction Bridge to wait for the search and rescue recovery team.
After a couple of hours, Hatton’s patrol car pulled up. The deputy got out and shook his head. “Didn’t learn much. Neighbors say Mateo and his wife went to a family meeting over in Mora. The Cruz clan has a farm in the valley.”
All he learned about the Porsche was that Martin and Jaime Cruz, the middle two of four Cruz brothers, had shown up in it two days ago, lovingly washed and rubbed it down, and bragged about their new wheels without divulging where they got them. The two boys took it for short drives with Joe, the youngest, tagging along. The neighbors were unanimous in their opinion the car was pure foolishness; it wasn’t practical for this terrain. But none expressed curiosity about where the boys got it, probably because the whole village would know everything once Mateo laid eyes on it. The Cruz brothers weren’t considered the most sensible boys around, except maybe the oldest, Pablo, who was over in the Mora Valley with his parents.
That left us with a single source of information about the Porsche: Joe, the unconscious seventeen-year-old who had been medevacked to the hospital in Santa Fe. Ignoring the fact it was after eleven, I called Artie Hartshorn, a detective with the Santa Fe Police Department, an old friend—or at least he was before I hauled him out of bed—and asked him to get someone to bird-dog that situation for us until I could get there tomorrow morning.
It was close to midnight when the search and rescue team’s two rubber boats approached the takeout point. The lower Taos Box was a year-round run of white water, so the rafters had had no trouble reaching the wrecked Porsche, but they spent two hours extracting the bodies from the crumpled car and making the last leg of the run in darkness. Something I wouldn’t have wanted to attempt.
Drenched, his hair spiked from the wind and water, Aggie ignored us until he and Delfino helped the team load two blanket-shrouded forms into an ambulance. Then he turned to me. Although exhaustion was clearly etched on his face, Aggie seemed pumped by the discovery his brother was not in the shattered automobile at the bottom of the Rio Grande Gorge.
“You get hold of the old man?” he asked.
“Yeah. You’re to call him as soon as you can, regardless of the time.”
“He’ll have to wait. I need to change into dry clothes and get something to eat.”
“Okay. I rented a car. Let’s go.”
We all piled into my rental, and we took Delfino back to his cruiser at the gorge bridge before going in search of a motel.
NOW WE sat in Aggie’s room in the Taos Inn just off the town square while he dialed his father’s number. I was pleased he’d chosen this place instead of one of the fancy new hotels. I liked the privacy management gave its guests. In fact, you were left to your own devices to the extent that if you wanted firewood for the hogan-style fireplace in your room, the clerk courteously directed you to the woodpile. The tasks of hauling it to your room and laying the fire were yours. A modest load of logs already rested in my own room just across the way.
“Papa?” Aggie said when his call connected. He paused. “No, it wasn’t Lando. No doubt about it. They’ve identified the two bodies.” After he finished explaining the situation as we knew it, he held the phone out to me. “He wants to talk to you.”
Alfano immediately started issuing orders. “Vinson, I want you to stay on this thing. It’s more important than ever to find Lando. Something must have happened to him. He wouldn’t give up that automobile without a fight. It was a graduation present.”
“All right, Alfano. I’m heading to Santa Fe to be on hand when the third kid in the car—the boy who survived—regains consciousness. He’s the only one who might know when and where they g
ot the Porsche. In the meantime, the police are putting out a bulletin to locate and hold your son and his companion. I talked to my contacts in Albuquerque and with the state police in Santa Fe, so they are up-to-date on events. There’s a possibility the boys have met with—”
“I know.” The heavy voice suddenly seemed exhausted. “My boy might be dead. Killed for his car.”
“A possibility, but that’s leaping to conclusions. The people who know the family tell me the Cruz brothers were irresponsible but not killers. There are at least a couple of layers to this story.”
“Do what you have to. I’m flying out in the morning.”
“Not a good idea.” I sensed the shock on the other end of the line. Probably not many people spoke to Anthony P. Alfano like that.
“Why the hell not?”
“So far we’ve kept your name out of it. If you come out, the television networks are going to swoop down in droves.”
“Maybe we should make the whole damned countryside know my son’s missing.”
“Let me talk to the boy in the hospital before we go off half-cocked.”
We sparred a bit longer before I hung up and turned to Aggie. He had a tired grin on his face.
“What?”
“You called him Alfano. If you knew my dad, you’d know that’s kinda ballsy.”
“If he knew me, he wouldn’t call me Vinson,” I snapped. “I warned him about it once.”
The grin grew into a broad smile. “I like you, B. J. Vinson.”
“And I like you, A. F. Alfano.”
“Are you going to try to see the Cruz kid tonight?”
“No, I don’t think they’ll let me in until he’s stabilized and they’re certain of his condition. But I’m heading out first thing in the morning. That’s why I sent Jim to bed, so he’ll be fit for flying at daybreak.”
Aggie glanced at his watch. “Daybreak. That’s only three hours or so.”
“I know, but it’s important to see Joe Cruz. And since he’s probably going to be charged with car theft, I want to be there before a lawyer gets to him. He’s more apt to give me what I want if he hasn’t been advised to keep his mouth shut.”
