Bad Moon Rising

by Billy Kring

  Suri said, “We need to borrow him for a bit, sorry.” She smiled when she said it but she wasn’t asking if she could take him. She gently tugged at Moon’s arm.

  Moon said, “I’m around later if you need to talk.”

  We watched them go. I said, “You see that?”

  “What?”

  “Suri used her left hand to pull at Moon.”

  Hondo pointed at two people in the crowd, “They’re both eating tacos with their left hands. It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “But it’s something to file away in the old noggin.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  We watched the band get ready for their first number, then we left.

  Hondo said, “It’s time to set ol’ Troy down and have a man to man. Something is going on, and it feels hinky.”

  I said, “There you go, using technical terms again. Is this about Wilson?”

  “Maybe not directly, but Troy’s not working in Bodhi’s best interest, I can guarantee you that.”

  “When do you want to do it?”

  “Tomorrow. Let’s go visit Charlie Manson’s old home site, snoop around a little and see if the detectives missed anything.”

  “Maybe Juan’s around. We can ask him if we find him at the labor camp.”

  As we walked back to the office, the three women with Moon waved to us. Moon wasn’t looking at us; he had his eyes on Eric and the other members of Electrical Testicle. It looked to me like he studied an adversary, giving him special attention. I wondered if it was because we were with them earlier, or because they told him to leave Bodhi alone.

  A teenager on rollerblades made me jump as we almost collided. He said, “Watch where you’re going!”

  I shouted, “You’re not the boss of me!” Hondo shook his head.

  ~*~

  Yellow crime scene tape made a circle around the murder site, but one end came loose and flicked in the breeze like a kite tail. Tracks were everywhere. The message still showed on the boulder, looking like rust since it dried.

  I said, “They had every cop in California stomping around out here, looks like.”

  “We’ll look at other places. They recovered or photographed everything right here.”

  We walked in opposite directions, going out in ever-larger circles. I didn’t see anything that caught my eye, but kept walking. A half-hour later, I stopped and looked around, hoping some supernatural force would send a giant finger out of the clouds and point at a spot, but that didn’t happen. I sighed and walked down into the small draw to meander among the trees and brush. I rounded a large bush in a familiar area and looked up the draw to the small cave I’d seen my last time here. My scalp prickled and the hair stood up on my arms. A message written in blood was on the back wall below the older original message. The complete inscription of old and new read:

  Manson is prophet

  Rise

  Kill the never faithful

  I called Hondo and he arrived a minute later, coming soundless through the leaves and sticks like some ghost. I said, “I haven’t been closer.”

  “Go ahead, you won’t leave tracks here. I’ll stay back, you check it out.”

  I eased forward scanning the ground for any possible evidence. Nothing caught my eye until I reached the lip of the small cave. Leaning close to the wall, I could tell the same person who wrote the note on the boulder wrote this one. I said, “Same person.”

  “I guessed.”

  I found nothing else, but took photos with my phone, then returned to Hondo, who called Vick. He reported our discovery and Vick said we could leave, he had people on the way out here. We looked at each other and said at the same time, “Let’s find Juan.”

  The day labor camp had moved to a nearby group of shacks, and Juan sat on one of the porches propping up a bandaged hand with a can of beer.

  He half-smiled when we exited Shamu and he said, “Amigos.”

  I pointed to his hand, “What happened?”

  “I wass running and fell on rocks.”

  “Was the Border Patrol chasing you?”

  “No, the Kiowa.”

  I said, “Do you know where he is?”

  “Gone.” He did a pantomime of pulling out a cell from his shirt pocket, “The phone, she ring and he answer, then leave.”

  “Know where he went?”

  Juan pointed, “To the place I first see you. I follow heem, and watch from the hill as three weemens and the two big black men put a gringo on the ground. He wass tied with ropes.” Juan’s eyes teared, “They keel him. The weemens do it. They beat heem and stab heem many time with knives.” Juan shook his head, “So many times. I was very ‘fraid. And one with black hair, she write theengs on the rock in his blood.”

  I felt the anger building in me like heat. “If you know where the Kiowa went after that, tell us and we’ll take care of him. You won’t have to be afraid again.”

  “I don’ know. I came here just to sit. Your California iss muy peligroso, how you say, very dangerous. Soon I will go home to Mexico. I am very sad now.”

  “Come with us. You can stay at the office again.”

  Juan shook his head, “No. I stay here for now with my friends, but not long I theenk. I come see you soon.”

  I took money from my wallet, which wasn’t much and gave it to him. “In case you need something.” I hesitated and said, “Juan we have to tell the police about what you saw, who you saw. Our friend is a lawman, and a good person. He needs to hear this.”

  Juan nodded. He said, “I go inside now. I wait for heem.” He rose and opened the door, then turned to us, “The Kiowa, he cut his hair. No braids now.” He held up his hand with the thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. “Eets chort like Hondo’s.” Since we only had descriptions and had never seen him, that would make him harder for us to visually identify, but not that much harder.

  We watched the door close. Hondo said, “Juan said he wanted to go home, so Vick can talk to Immigration and arrange it. The main thing is catching the Kiowa and find out who’s behind all this.”

  We walked to the truck as Hondo called and filled Vick in on everything.

  I drove into the city toward the office. We both remained silent. And angry.

  I said, “I’m tired of reacting, I want to cause a reaction.”

  Hondo said. “We know the Kiowa hangs around undocumented people, labor camps, places like that, so where do you think?”

  “You up for Bakersfield?”

  “I am.”

  We took 118 east through the Simi Valley and connected to Interstate 5. I made one stop before driving North, and that was at a Starbucks. Hondo looked at me, “What are you going to get?”

  “Tall Mocha and a muffin, nothing extravagant.”

  He rolled his eyes, but went inside with me. I placed my order, and heard Hondo tell them, “I’ll have the same.”

  I said, “You dog, you. Making me feel bad about what I ordered.”

  He said, “Today’s my free day. I feel the need for sugar, chocolate, and caffeine.”

  “That should make your arteries sing.”

  We got our orders and returned to the road through the mountains and along the lowland route. Traffic seemed less than usual and we made good time, driving fast through the long oxbow curve to the west after passing through Gorman, and then straightening again to continue north at Lebec.

  We passed through Grapevine and into the agricultural fields where things proceeded in full swing, with field hands and trucks and tractors moving through the acres of growing produce like ants. They harvested several varieties of lettuce, along with vegetables of all kinds. I said to Hondo, “I’m thinking I’ll have a salad when we eat next.”

  He pulled down his Ray Bans to look at me, “You, a salad.”

  “I’ve eaten them before.”

  Hondo pushed up his shades, “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll order for us so you aren’t an oath breake
r.”

  “It’s not an oath, it’s a salad.”

  “You meant it as an oath. An oath of healthy eating, that’s what you meant even if you didn’t say it out loud.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You’re not going to argue?”

  “No, you’re right. And thank you.” Hondo looked at me, but I couldn’t see his eyes behind the shades. I said, “I’m serious, thanks.” I didn’t feel a need to tell him I planned to put a T-bone on it.

  The sun hovered above the horizon like an orange ball as we entered the Casa Loma section of town. I drove slowly, checking things as we went, all the while getting closer to the house where they murdered TJ.

  We stopped in front of it, but saw no sign of activity, not even an indication anyone had been there recently. I pulled away from the curb just as my eleven-year old friend from last time waved me down.

  He slid his bike sideways so it stopped beside my driver’s window. “Who you looking for this time?” He asked.

  “Do you remember the guy, looked like an Indian?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re looking for him.”

  “He moved. He’s off of Watts Street, in a different house. Him and those two big black guys. They’re hiding, I think.”

  I pulled a twenty from my wallet and handed it to him, “Want to show us?”

  “Sure.” He pedaled away, glancing back to see if I still followed before he accelerated. We covered several blocks, and went into an alley and out the other side near open fields. He stopped and waited for me to pull beside him. “You need to park that pickup here and we can go the rest of the way on foot.”

  I said, “How come we can’t drive?”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes at me, “Because there is no road, and because your truck sticks out like a sore thumb. You need to walk. It’s not far, just over there.” He pointed to a small cluster of sheds and two old, shotgun style houses. Farm equipment lay scattered around the sheds, with some looking like trash while others appeared useable.

  As we walked beside a long hedgerow of oleander that shielded us from the houses, I asked the boy, “What’s your name?”

  “Adan.” He pronounced it Ah-DAHN.

  “You have a last name?”

  “Gonzales. What are your names?”

  We told him and he nodded. He said, “There’s people coming and going at this place, but the one I mostly see is the man who looked like an Indian until he cut off his braids. Now he looks regular. And there’s the two big black guys.”

  “You think they’re hiding?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve only seen them a couple times. Others come and go, but they never leave the place. I went there one night and checked the house, peeked in the window. They were inside.”

  We reached one of the sheds and eased along the side so we could view the houses. Adan stopped beside me at the corner to show which house. His arm was extended and the index finger pointing as he said, “That one there.”

  That’s when the Kiowa stepped from behind a tractor and leveled a Mini-14 at us.

  I dove at Adan and knocked him out of the line of fire as the first shot burned into my side at the belt line. Four more rounds kicked dirt in my face and hit the metal shed above us, making a sound like hail before Hondo fired.

  Hondo worked the trigger so fast he emptied the clip while the first ejected casing still tumbled through the air. He slammed in a second clip and watched over his sights for movement, but the Kiowa had vanished.

  I pulled my pistol and said to Adan, “Run home, we’ll talk to you later.”

  “I’m not going out there.” He looked at the long stretch of open field. “I’m safer here with you two.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Okay, but you stay behind us.”

  Adan nodded, then said, “Hey, you’re bleeding.”

  I knew I’d been hit, but the adrenaline had any pain nullified at the moment. I took a quick look. The bullet cut a shallow two-inch long nibble out of my belt, pants and the flesh on my hip. I lowered my pants to check the wound. It looked like someone sliced a long divot as wide as my pinky fingernail and a quarter-inch deep. Blood soaked into my pants.

  Hondo glanced at it, then back at his sights as he kept guard. I said to him, “give me your tee shirt.”

  Hondo said, “What’s wrong with your shirt?”

  “Mine’s a button down made of rayon and stuff. Yours is cotton. Wounds need cotton.”

  He hesitated a second, then slipped his tee shirt over his head and handed it to me.

  Adan’s eyes widened when he saw Hondo’s physique.

  My side throbbed. I thought the bullet might have nicked the hipbone, but I didn’t have time to check.

  I tore Hondo’s shirt into long strips and folded the sleeve portions into a pad that I pressed onto the wound, then wrapped the strips around my waist and cinched them down tight to stop the bleeding.

  As I finished, Hondo said, “That’s my favorite shirt.”

  “I’ll buy you another one.”

  “It had Willie Nelson’s autograph on the sleeve.”

  “Next time we run into Willie, I’ll ask him to sign a new one.”

  “Hey guys,” Adan said as he pointed. We could see portions of the two black men behind the equipment, and evidence of at least one rifle.

  I said, “They’re working their way closer.”

  Hondo said, “Let’s put a stop to it.” He knelt, then lowered to his stomach, allowing him to see under much of the agricultural equipment. I did the same.

  Two inches of space showed under some long pipes on a rack, and when their feet became visible, we opened up.

  Hondo’s first shot grazed the side of a shoe and the man hopped like he stood on something hot.

  My first shot hit the man’s shoe heel and knocked off his shoe, showing a black sock with his big toe sticking out of a hole. He hopped and yelped.

  Then the rifles came over the top and the shooters blindly sprayed their weapons at us.

  We shot several more times at their dancing feet before they moved to better cover. We rose from the ground just in time to hear an engine start on the opposite side of the shed. Moving quickly, we circled the shed in time to see the three men on a tractor, with the Kiowa driving and the two black men hanging on for dear life as they bounced across the rows in the emerald field while the tractor’s knobby wheels spun carrot plants high into the air behind it like orange and green confetti.

  We weren’t going to catch them. By the time we reached Shamu, the local police had arrived. We told them what happened and they called the station to have other vehicles hunting for the tractor and the three suspects. Hondo and I followed them to the station where we gave full statements and signed the printed copies. By the time we finished night had fallen. I drove us toward Los Angeles knowing we’d worn our welcome thin in Bakersfield.

  As we passed through Gorman going south on I-5, Hondo’s phone rang. He talked a bit, then put the phone back in his pocket. He said, “They found the tractor.”

  “And?”

  “No people,” he said.

  “Where’d they find it?”

  “Three miles south, stuck in an irrigation ditch.”

  “Near a road?”

  “Uh-huh. Tracks of three men led from the ditch to where a vehicle picked them up.”

  “Damn.”

  Hondo said, “That about sums it up.”

  “They could be anywhere now.”

  “We’ll keep looking. I want them.” I knew what he meant.

  The drive to Los Angeles was no fun, both because of our failure to catch the Kiowa and his henchmen, and because my hip throbbed like a big old toothache. The more I attempted not to move, the more it bothered me, and then when I did move, it felt like someone scraped a wood rasp in the wound.

  “Quit squirming,” Hondo said.

  “My hip hurts. I was shot, you know.”

  “Tis but a scratch,” Hondo said in his best Monty
Python voice.

  I laughed, and that made my hip hurt, which made me laugh harder, and that started Hondo laughing. It brought us out of our gloomy state and I drove toward the glow of the City of Angels with a renewed determination to find the Kiowa and his men.

  Chapter 10

  When we reached the office, we spotted Juan sitting near the door, with his knees up and his back against the wall. He’d parked his old pickup farther out in the parking lot. He stood and dusted off his pants as we exited Shamu. “Hello, amigos,” he said.

  I said, “Good to see you.”

  Hondo opened the door and we followed him inside. Juan said, “I have informations.”

  Hondo said, “If it’s about the Kiowa, we want to hear it. We lost him and his two friends up in Bakersfield.”

  “All my friends in the camp, they are afraid. They leave the camp like me.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Kiowa came and burned the houses. He say to theem, You leave, you go away, an’ don’t say notheeng to Baca or Wells, or I come for you and your families and kill everyone. He scare everyone very bad.”

  “Were you there?”

  “I hid. My friend, he say the Kiowa asked for me, but my friend tell him I left. The Kiowa knows I help you.”

  Hondo said, “You’ll stay with us.”

  “For a leetle while. My family in Mexico, I have fear for them. The Kiowa, he knows my place there.”

  I said, “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No.”

  I sighed.

  Juan said, “I follow heem when they leave the camp. He stop at The Getty, the place of art, you know thees place?” We nodded and he continued, “He meet the movie man there.”

  “Movie man?”

  “They argue, and the Kiowa says sometheeng that makes the movie man go ver’ white in his face. He shakes his head to say no, no, but the Kiowa, he reaches over and pulls his finger across the throat of the movie man, then he leave. I try to follow again, but lose heem.”

  “Who’s the movie man, Juan?”

  “He is guapo, how you say, handsome? He married the woman wass killed, the rich woman. He hass blond hair.”

  My eyebrows rose as my scalp prickled, “Troy? Troy Hanson?”