by Blake Banner
“Yiz can go dahn t’Gold Heel ‘n theen come all t’way beck t’Salina, but tha’s n’awful long way t’go, when all y’godda do is, take a lift at Emanciation Hill n’cut cross country dahn t’Salinas. ’S half the time and gits y’there all’same. S’what I’d do. Four Mile Creek Drive starts right there, in Salina.”
We thanked him warmly and, once we’d worked out what he’d said, took his advice.
It ended up being a ten and a half mile drive in two big loops, through deep canyon gorges in some of the most remote and beautiful terrain I had ever seen. We made Salina after about five miles, which took all of half an hour, and then crawled south and eventually west along Four Mile Canyon Drive. That was another six miles, until my GPS told me we had come parallel with Sly and Coy’s house, a mile north of our location.
We were in a broad, grassy esplanade with steep, densely forested slopes on either side. I pulled off the track, we grabbed a rucksack we’d packed with sandwiches and water, and began our climb through the woods. It was a cold day, the sun was in the south, and the trees were dense, but even so, after five minutes of climbing, scrabbling on the loose pine needles and hauling ourselves up manually through the trees, where the slopes were steepest, we were hot and perspiring.
After about fifteen minutes, the slope leveled off a bit and the trees thinned out. Dehan leaned her back against a large pine, checked the GPS on her phone, and pointed up to our left.
“Another climb, old timer, it’s up there.”
“Old timer?” I followed her across a gully, crunching over dry twigs and branches, toward the second slope. “You didn’t call me that last night, when I defended your honor.”
“Shut up.”
We scrambled, clawed, and climbed for another fifteen minutes, and finally the ground leveled off again and we found ourselves at the edge of the forest looking out at a huge clearing, maybe three hundred and fifty yards south to north, and double that across, east to west. We dropped on our bellies to have a look, and get a rest.
Opposite us, there was another stretch of woodland, and I knew that beyond that, maybe half a mile away, was Sly’s house. But over on the left, hidden from the road by that forest, was exactly what we had come looking for. A long, broad area of land which had been recently disturbed, as though it had been harvested. At a rough estimate, I guessed it was at least sixty yards across and a good hundred and fity yards long. You need a patch six feet across to grow an outdoor cannabis plant successfully, and in the right conditions it will grow to well over seven feet and give you three to five pounds of produce. The plot we were looking at here, at a rough estimate, would support about five hundred plants.
Dehan jerked her head towards the field. “If he’s planting super skunk there…” She sucked her teeth and thought for a moment, “From a patch like that, he’s harvesting maybe seven hundred and fifty kilos, maybe a ton of weed a year. Wholesale value, say two, two and a half grand a kilo, you’re looking at maybe two million bucks.”
I nodded. “Tax free. No wonder he looks prosperous. But he might be growing corn. We need to get a closer look.”
We went at a steady jog, keeping to the tree cover, and circled around until we were within ten feet of the edge of the field. There we dropped and lay among the ferns, listening. There was only the sigh of the pines and the odd flap of wings. After about five minutes, when we were sure there was nobody about, we moved forward to the churned-up earth and squatted down to inspect it.
Everywhere we looked, there were the severed stems of the cannabis plants. They had been harvested whole and taken away to a barn somewhere, there to have the buds removed and prepared for wholesale. I took out my cell and photographed the area, and the severed stems. Dehan sighed and shoved her hands in her back pockets.
“OK, so we’ve proved, for our own satisfaction, that Greg is growing marijuana on his ranch. We’ve proved that Sly lives on that ranch in rented accommodation, two or three hundred yards from the plantation.” She shook her head at me. “But none of that is illegal. So far, there is no crime here.”
“I know. We have also proved that Sly sold dope to Pat, and she probably sold it on in New York, but that’s all circumstantial. We still haven’t connected any of this to Kathleen or her murder.” I spread my hands. “We’re making progress. We are putting together the pieces. What we need to do now is prove that Sly is selling this stuff illegally, and connect him, through Pat, to Kathleen.”
She chewed her lip. “How are we going to do that?”
I pointed at the woods that separated us from Sly. “Let’s take a look at his house, see if the drying shed is there. If it is, right now there should be a ton of weed drying inside it.”
She snorted and we moved in among the trees. “A ton of weed. I’d hate to think what would happen to Happy Valley if that barn caught fire.”
“You’re a bad woman, Dehan.”
A few minutes later, we were lying among the ferns again. Ahead of us was a large, two-story, clapboard house, about fifty yards away. Out front there was a Buick, and beside it a Range Rover. Beyond it, we could see the road that led east to Gold Hill and west down to the Shack, but much closer, about fifteen or twenty yards away, up against the trees, there was a large barn with a heavy padlock on the door. And the smell emanating from it was unmistakable.
I smiled at her. “Bingo.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, bingo, but now what?”
“We wait till dark, then we go in and photograph the stuff.”
“And then?”
I lay with my chin on my arms, chewing my lip. And then? And then what? I looked at her and we stared at each other for a bit in silence. Eventually, she said, “We can’t stake them out and wait for a buyer to show up, to see where he’s from and where he goes. We haven’t got the time or the resources. And neither has the sheriff.”
“I know.”
“Even if Sly and Coy and Greg are in partnership to grow and sell weed, it’s still legal. We need that connection to Pat and Kathleen.”
“I know, I know…” I sighed. “Let’s see what we discover inside. Maybe we’ll find something so we can force their hands somehow…”
And we lay there, eating sandwiches and watching the house and the barn as the sun slid down in the west.
FIFTEEN
Eventually, late afternoon, with its russet light and its elongated shadows, faded into a grainy dusk. The sun died on the western peaks and there spilled its blood over the Rocky Mountains. The light went out of the sky, and the vast translucent mantle was pierced, one by one, by icy stars. In the house, windows began to glow, while not so far off, the coyotes began to howl. And just above our heads, an owl told us that what we were about to do was a really bad idea.
But what would he know? He was just an owl.
I looked at Dehan. “Lets go.”
We crouch-ran the short distance to the barn. She touched my shoulder and pointed to the corner of the building. “I’ve got this. Keep watch.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, but for once in my life I did as I was told. It didn’t take long. Fifteen seconds later, the padlock was off and we were easing the rickety door open on its rollers. The smell was overpowering, like boiling cabbage on steroids. We slipped through the gap and pulled the door closed behind us. It was very dark. I felt Dehan’s breath on my ear.
“Did you see any windows?”
“No, but I couldn’t see the east wall.”
“You’ve got a flashlight on your key-ring.”
“I know. I put it there.”
“Use it!”
“Give me a chance, will you.”
I pulled it from my pocket and switched it on, shielding it with my hand and directing it down toward the floor. By its dim glow, we examined the wall on the right. It was enough to see that there were no windows, so I played the thin beam around the barn. There were long stretches of nylon cord suspended from wall to wall, at a height of about seven feet, some four or five feet
apart. I didn’t count them, but there must have been eight or ten at least. I nudged Dehan and pointed at them.
“For drying. He must have another barn somewhere. That wouldn’t take five hundred plants.”
She nodded. “He must have harvested in mid-September. He’s already dried the plants and processed them. That’s fast work.”
“With a bit of luck, he has it stored here. Let’s have a look.”
The whole area was about thirty by sixty feet, with a high ceiling and a loft. From where I was standing, the loft seemed to be empty. We found the dope among the shadows at the back. Most of it was in big plastic drums, maybe thirty gallons in volume. But there was a large stack of smaller, five gallon tubs, weighing about eight or ten pounds. It was hard to tell. Then, over in the right-hand corner, we found a huge stash, eight feet high, of plastic packages sealed with packing tape. Each one about two pounds—a kilo.
There were rolls of tape and plastic bags in a carton near by.
I turned to Dehan. “I’m willing to bet that the labs researching the medical benefits of cannabis have slightly stricter shipping requirements.”
“You think?”
We took photographs and video footage, both of which would be inadmissible as evidence in a court of law, and in any case proved only that Greg was cultivating and storing cannabis, which in Colorado was perfectly lawful. It would, however, be something to show the captain, and possibly the sheriff.
“If we get a result from Kathleen’s credit card records, or her phone and email, this may give us enough to pull the three of them in for questioning, and Pat, too. Then we can try to prove a link.”
She sighed. “Yeah, Pat’s going to be key to this, if we’re right. She’s the bridge. But so far we haven’t got much, Sensei. Let’s go, this place gives me the creeps.”
We headed back toward the big doors, following the small, hazy circle from my flashlight. I was thinking of the long, difficult trek back through the woods to the Dodge, and wondering if, when we got to the Wagon Wheel, there would be any news from the 43rd. Despite Dehan’s downbeat assessment, I had a feeling we were approaching a turning point in the case.
I wasn’t wrong.
There was a loud, shuddering noise of wood and rollers, and a translucent oblong of starlight opened up ahead of us. Four black silhouettes stood stenciled against it. We froze, but the glare from two powerful lamps blinded us and bathed us in white light. I shaded my eyes and the glare and the silhouettes seemed to warp and swell as I heard the trudge of boots on the dirt floor.
A nicotine-stained voice rasped, “Denle a la luz!”
A moment later there was a buzzing and flickering overhead and four neon tubes bathed the barn in a dead, humming glow. El Coyote was staring at us. He was flanked by two Angels. One of them I recognized as Scott, the ape I’d decked the night before. He was grinning among his bruises. A fourth guy who looked Mexican was returning from the switch panel by the door.
Coy eyed us with what you could only describe as loathing. “You fockin’ lying shit. I’m gonna gut you like a fish, Gringo. But first we gonna play a bit with your puta.”
Scott looked happy and laughed. Dehan disturbed me by laughing too. “You wanna go first, Coy? I’m gonna bust your balls so hard they’ll knock your eyes out of their sockets, pendejo! And you?” She pointed at Scott. “You’re gonna be singing soprano in the Colorado State Opera.”
El Coyote looked more like an iguana than a wild dog. He was motionless and expressionless, and his voice came out like a quiet hiss in his throat. “You got a big mouth, puta. But we gonna silence it for you.”
I caught Dehan’s eye and nodded once. I pulled my piece and aimed it at Coy’s forehead, right between his eyes. Dehan had her .38 in her hands and was covering the other three by turns.
I said, “This is how it’s going to go down. Coy, you are going to lie on your face. Scott, you are going to tie his hands and his ankles. You two,” I gestured at the other Angel and the Mexican, “You’re going to do the same. Understood? Then, Scott, you’re going to tie up your Mexican pal over there. Nobody gets hurt. OK?”
El Coyote snarled, and managed for a moment to look like a wild dog. “Nobody fockin’ move. These mothers are cops. I can smell it. They on private property and they ain’t gonna shoot nobody.”
“Dehan grinned. “See, pendejo, you’re right, and then again, you’re wrong. Yeah, we are cops, but look around, pal. Where are your credible witnesses? Blink in a way I don’t like and I’ll nail you. And if there’s anybody left to get on a witness stand, who do you think the jury is going to believe?”
It was a brave attempt, but it didn’t work. Coy snarled something obscene in Spanish, then shouted, “Kill them!” and charged me, closely followed by his three gorillas.
I screamed, “Run!” at Dehan and fired. But Coy was already past my gun and had gripped me in a crushing embrace, hurling me to the ground. I landed with a whoosh! And felt blades of pain pierce my winded lungs. Over his shoulder I saw, as though in slow motion, Dehan’s gun kick. The empty shell spiraled into the air and the Mexican looked astonished and sat down, staring at the oozing hole in his chest.
The two Angels were charging her. I screamed again, “Run! Run!” She dodged Scott’s lunge and drove her elbow into his floating ribs. He staggered back and dropped to his knees. I tried to line up the other guy, but they were moving fast, and the risk of hitting Dehan was too great.
Then Coy was straddling me, with his knees on my arms, pulling back his fist to smash me in the face. I pressed the muzzle of my automatic against his thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled phut! and El Coyote was howling like his namesake. I threw him on the ground and scrambled to my feet. The second Angel had Dehan pinned against the wall, trying to hook her legs from under her with his heel. I was about to charge him, but stopped and frowned. I saw her slip her .38 into her waist band and bend her knees. Next thing, her right hand slammed up and gripped his balls. He choked and she called out to me, “This what they call Colorado oysters, Stone?” Then she squeezed hard and twisted. The noise that came out of that man’s mouth was not human.
He fell. She kicked Scott in the head and said, “Now we can run.”
We ran.
Dehan is young and athletic. I am neither, plus I was badly winded from El Coyote’s tackle. As I came through the barn doors, she was already moving in among the trees and disappearing. I stumbled and stopped a moment to get my breath, and that was when I felt the muzzle against my head, and heard the click of a hammer.
“Don’t move.” I froze. “OK, now give me your gun, and put your hands behind your head.”
For the second time that night, I did as I was told. I felt a strong grip on my right wrist and next thing, my arms were wrenched behind my back, a plastic zip-tie bit into my skin, and my hands were bound behind my back.
I said, “I’m a cop. You’re making a bad mistake.”
“I know who you are, pal. Turn around.” I turned and found myself looking into Greg Carson’s smug face. “You may be a cop, Stone, but you’re out of your jurisdiction and breaking the law on my property. I am in my perfect right to shoot you dead, and I may just do that.”
I gave my head a twitch. “Well, Greg, I don’t know what to tell you. If you are convicted for the murder of Kathleen Olvera, that will be in New York. You’ll get life. But if you are convicted of kidnapping and killing a police officer, in the performance of his duty, that’ll be here in Colorado, and you know as well as I do that the DA will be looking for the death penalty. Now it’s up to you to make a smart choice, knowing that right now my partner is on her way back to New York with information about what we just found in your barn.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, pal, it was dark, you did not identify yourself, and you shot and murdered one of my tenants. You don’t stand a chance.”
He raised his gun and pointed it at my head. “Get back in there. I want to talk to you before I kill you.�
�
“How can I refuse?”
I went back into the barn where El Coyote was sitting, tying one of his boot laces around his thigh. He was shaking and looked real pale. Scott was still unconscious and the other Angel was curled in the fetal position, whimpering. The thought crossed my mind that she had probably castrated him. Greg looked at the scene of carnage and shook his head. He laughed and I like to think there was a touch of admiration in his voice.
“Boy, you two are somethin’, huh? These hombres think they’re hard, but you just whipped their asses.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Greg, and get real. We are police officers. We’re here at the invitation of the local sheriff, conducting a murder investigation. So far you haven’t broken the law. The best thing you can do is cooperate before this gets any more out of hand.”
He put his revolver into his waistband behind his back, studied my face for a moment, and nodded. Then he smashed his fist into my jaw and the lights went out.
SIXTEEN
When I came around, the world was a deeply unsatisfactory place. Everything hurt. Within the generalized pain that was existence right then, there were sharper, meaner pains. There was the pain in my back that was making it hard to breathe. There was the pain that was biting into my wrists, the pain that was making my legs shake, and, above all, the blunt axe that somebody had left wedged into my skull. There were other pains too, but they were just the background.
It slowly filtered into my mind that I was tied to one of the wooden pillars that held up the roof of the barn. Putting my weight on my feet eased the pain in my back and shoulders, and I was able to peer around me. Gradually, they came into focus. They’d brought chairs and they were sitting, watching me.
There was Greg, up close, with no particular expression on his face. A bit farther back was El Coyote. He looked feverish and pasty. He was sweating, and another Mexican-looking guy was dressing the wound in his leg. The Angel was over on the right, not far from where he’d fallen. He was still in the fetal position, but he’d gone quiet. He looked like he might be unconscious. Scott was lying next to him. The body of the guy she’d shot had disappeared, but there were two more live ones in his place, standing, looking at me with hatred in their eyes. Sitting in front of them, next to Greg, was Sly. It was not a promising scene to wake up to.
