by Rick Mofina
In a distant region of Judy’s stomach, a flicker of knowing began; it was a weak, desperate cry, welling into an anguished scream until she snatched the note from the fax tray. Dear God.
Winn at the other end of the line had read it. “My God, Judy, I don’t think this is a joke.”
Judy didn’t hear her friend. She was staring at the TV, then reread the note, each word imploring her like the hand of someone drowning, someone flailing for their life, begging her to...
Please call the FBI now—
The TV showed another photo. A woman. Her pretty face smiling at Judy. Her name emblazoned under it. The words she had scrawled leaping at Judy from the note she held in her trembling hands...
Please call the FBI now. My name is Ann Reed, I was kidnapped by two men from the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry Store armed robbery. I saw them shoot a police officer.
We're going east. Men are named John and Del. Two white males about six feet driving a...
Judy reread the passages.
We’re going east...John Mark Engler and Delmar James Tribe.
John and Del.
“Judy? Are you there?”
Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she thought back to that day, the electricians bringing her their work orders, job sheets, invoices, time sheets, the note falling from the pile. No one admitting it was a joke. Oh God. Could one of the boys have picked it up on a job somewhere?
“Judy? Are you there?”
“Sweet Jesus, Winn, what have I done? What should I do?”
“Call the FBI! Right now!”
“Yes.”
“Right away!”
Judy’s hands shook, she knocked her tea over, lifting Ann’s note in the nick of time from harm’s way. Flustered, she didn’t know where to begin looking for the FBI’s number in the Albuquerque directory.
“Lord, help me.”
Judy dialed 911.
65
In San Francisco, Reed watched the live broadcast of the latest news conference with Zach and Doris.
Every muscle in his body throbbed, his stomach was heaving uncontrollably, his ears pulsed; he slipped into a surreal state as he studied John Mark Engler. The task force had obtained recent photos. Over time his face had hardened, his eyes were colder.
Like looking into hell.
For Reed had devoted himself to pursuing monsters. Exposing them. Chronicling their sins, all the while believing they could never touch him. How could they? Truth was his shield and his sword. But he’d looked too long into the abyss without realizing it had also been looking into him.
“You will know my pain, Reed.”
Engler. Destroyer of worlds.
The karmic wheel had turned full circle on Reed. His hopes for Ann were slipping, descending. Like a casket lowered into the grave. The press conference ended. Doris muted the TV.
“We just have to keep praying,” she told Zach, then touched Reed’s shoulder. “Tom, you’ve barely slept in the last few days. Please rest.”
Reed met her eyes. Ann’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. So sorry.” He heaved himself to his feet.
In their bedroom, Reed collapsed on the bed. He was sinking in a losing battle with something unseen; his soul roiling, screaming for his old friend Jack Daniel’s to wash it all away, pulling Ann’s pink robe to him, gripping it as he fell into an icy darkness, calling for Ann, searching for her, seeing her smiling face. Oh, Ann. Her voice. Tom. I’m here. Touching her skin. Breathing in her scent. Pulling her to him. Tom. Feeling her hand on his, touching him. It was so real. Tom. Yes. I can wake up now. It was a nightmare. Tom. Ann, it was so damned real. I thought I’d lost you, I—Tom.
“Tom. It’s Turgeon. Wake up.”
He blinked. How long had he been asleep?
Turgeon was holding out his glasses to him, allowing him to orient himself. Sydowski was with her. Reed sat up. The coldness coiled around Reed’s heart, constricted. He braced himself. Prepared for the worst.
“We may have a break,” Sydowski said. “We need your help.”
“A break? Is she alive?”
Turgeon had a sheet of paper in her hand. “The FBI got this fax at the end of the news conference.”
Reed heard more voices in his living room. More people were here.
“What is it?”
“Read it, Tom. We think it’s from Ann.”
Please call the FBI now. My name is Ann Reed, I was kidnapped by two men from the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry Store armed robbery. I saw them shoot a police officer. We’re going east. Men are named John and Del. Two white males about six feet driving a red late-model SUV with Calif. plate starting...
His spine tingled. It was Ann’s handwriting. “I, where did you—”
“Is it Ann’s, Tom?”
“Yes! Yes! Is she alive? Where did you get this?” He studied the back. Nothing. The front. It was a fax, 505 area code.
“New Mexico. Albuquerque,” Sydowski said.
“Is she there? Give me a number. I want to talk to her now.”
“Hold on,” Sydowski said.
Reed searched round for his small bag, unpacked since returning from the desert. “I’m going there right now. Who do I see? Albuquerque FBI?”
“Tom, listen. No one has her.”
Sydowski explained the tip and how they needed Reed to provide a sample of Ann’s handwriting to compare with the note. “It came after the press conference,” Sydowski said. “The FBI and Albuquerque PD traced it to a motel near the Rio Grande. Their people are all over it with help from every other agency that can assist.”
“What do they know?”
Sydowski and Turgeon sat Reed down.
“As of a few days ago, it appears they were at a motel, the Sundowner Lodge in Albuquerque.”
“Did they find anything to indicate—?”
Turgeon was shaking her head. “All unfolding as we speak, Tom. Albuquerque’s got forensics, dogs, they’ll run phone tolls, check security cameras, gas stations, restaurants.”
Reed ran his hands through his hair.
“It’s a good break, Tom,” Sydowski said before his cell phone rang. He answered, taking a few steps out of the room as Reed heard him say, “Oklahoma?”
Reed and Turgeon looked at each other.
“Walt, tell me what’s going on?” Reed said.
“Hold on.” Sydowski rushed to the living room, which had swelled with FBI agents and SFPD officers. McDaniel was on his cell phone writing notes, talking in whispers just as the home phone rang.
Reed looked at the detective monitoring his incoming calls. He nodded and Reed answered after the second ring. “Yes?”
“Tom Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Reed, this is Mike Sorros, I’m with USA Today in Dallas.”
“Dallas.” Something was happening, Reed searched for hints in the police faces near him.
“Mr. Reed, a source of mine in Oklahoma has confirmed that the suspects wanted in your wife’s case were in a motel last night in Carter County, west of Ardmore in a rural area near Healdton.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“Roughly 120 miles north of Dallas, Texas.”
“They were in Oklahoma last night?”
Reed glimpsed McDaniel, Sydowski, and the other detectives exchanging concern. They knew Reed’s call was from a reporter with breaking information.
“Correct. My understanding is the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation and county investigators have confirmed it was Delmar Tribe and John Engler through fingerprints and possibly some security video.”
“Is my wife with them? Do you know?”
“A man staying at the same motel stepped from his room to buy a soda late last night and said he saw two men leave in their vehicle, a red SUV with a California plate.”
Reed squeezed the phone.
“The man, Jimmy Leverd of Fort Worth, said a woman was with them and my understanding from my source is that your wife’s fin
gerprints were on a soda can in the motel room.”
Reed closed his eyes. “You’re certain about this?”
“I trust my source, Mr. Reed. I was calling for your reaction to this break in the case.”
“You want to quote me for USA Today about the break in Oklahoma?” Reed looked at Sydowski and McDaniel, reading unease in the FBI agent’s face that the press was learning information as fast as they were.
“It gives us more hope that we’ll bring her home safely. We’re less than twenty-four hours behind them now and we’re gaining on them.”
Reed did not hear Sorros ask his other questions. He stared at Zach and Doris, trying not to lose his composure. Please, Ann. Hang on. Just hang on.
66
Angel Zelaya touched the thick cotton napkin to his lips after finishing his enchilada lunch at his favorite Mexican restaurant in southwest Houston.
Impeccably dressed in his copper suit, navy polo shirt, and glasses, Zelaya looked every inch the successful wholesale gem buyer. He was a soft-spoken careful family man who attended Mass on Sundays. A father who enjoyed playing with his four children in the pool of his home in Lakewood Forest, a desirable Houston neighborhood.
What Zelaya never enjoyed, and had a personal rule against, was dealing with anyone from his past, that being the three hard years he did in Leavenworth for stealing and selling Ml6s to various Central American revolutionaries.
It was a lifetime ago.
So when Delmar Tribe first contacted him a few months back with the San Francisco offer, Zelaya rejected him outright. Later, after he took a call from Tribe’s partner, John Engler, whom Zelaya thought more intelligent than Tribe, Zelaya was tempted. Engler said they had solid inside information on a jewelry store. The scale and quality of inventory was impressive. Zelaya considered it until he flew to San Francisco to personally assess the situation. He weighed the risks and his profit margin. He kept weighing them until he broke his rule: he agreed to do business with Tribe and Engler.
Zelaya would pay five hundred thousand cash for one million in retail. Extremely generous.
Zelaya had nearly doubled his network in South America. By having his tradesman recut, melt down, and recast, and with some substitution, Zelaya could turn his end into three, possibly three point five million. All for five hundred. The prospect prompted him to indicate to some of his trusted clients that he might soon be offering some very good numbers on new product. Very good numbers. It was risky but the bottom line was enticing, Zelaya thought, after paying for his meal and walking to the door, where he stopped cold.
Tribe’s face was glowing from the big-screen TV behind the bar.
What the hell was this? Zelaya closed his eyes sadly, then took a stool at the far end of the near empty bar and ordered mineral water.
There they were. Tribe, Engler, the face of their hostage, pictures of their victims, a little map like connect-the-dots, from San Francisco, to Death Valley, to Winslow, Arizona, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Healdton, Oklahoma. Might as well light up Texas. Zelaya drank some of his water; then his dealer’s cell phone vibrated.
“Yes?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“We’re local now. We’re not far from the point. We’re set.”
These morons had beautiful timing. Zelaya said, “No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“I’m staring at your face. Is your middle name Mark?”
“What?”
“Did you call to tell me to tune in?”
“What?”
Zelaya ensured no one could overhear him. “You’re live on CNN.”
“Goddammit. It was Tribe. He messed up.”
“I don’t care. The deal’s off.”
“No. We’ve come this far. Wait. We’ll move it up. We’re very near.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll call you. Angel, don’t you hang up! Angel!” Zelaya ended the call, then consulted his Rolex. He had to see the owner of a store at a downtown shop. All legit. And boring. Then there was the church board meeting.
Walking to his gold Mercedes 450 SL in the lot, Zelaya rebuked himself for not adhering to his rule. This deal was dangerous. He should back away, period. Still, the numbers were damned tempting. And he had everything in place with his network. If Engler or Tribe did call later, he could exercise leverage. Given the circumstances, he’d only close the project if he had a deep discount, say one hundred thousand. Greed is a sin, Zelaya reminded himself. Perhaps he’d give the church a sizable donation. He sighed as his gleaming car glided from the lot. He resumed listening to his Freddy Fender CD and pondered an evening swim with his children.
67
Ann Reed’s sweating fingers tightened on the handgrip under the rear passenger window. Her right wrist was still handcuffed to the grip and her right ankle chained to the rear frame of the seat in front of her.
Engler had stopped along an empty stretch of a two-lane back road to make a call from a roadside pay phone. Tribe was lying in the far back bed of the SUV, sleeping off his wound and hangover.
They were in Texas.
After fleeing the motel, Engler had driven on dirt roads before pulling into a dense pine grove where they’d slept. At dawn they’d entered Texas. For much of the morning they’d meandered as if going in circles while keeping to rural roads. Ann had glimpsed signs indicating the distance to Dallas, Longview, or Tyler. They were somewhere in the eastern part of the state.
It felt like early afternoon. The heat was intense. Before going to the pay phone, Engler had switched off the engine and the air conditioner. Ann surveyed the area. Nothing but forests. She let her head drop to the headrest. Too exhausted and too hot to cry or think, she shut her eyes to pray but couldn’t find the words. She tried to think of Tom, of Zach, her mother, but their faces were eclipsed by Engler.
Blaming Tom for his tragedy. Engler was insane. But what if Tom was to blame? Could she accept that? No. Don’t even think about that. Engler and Tribe were coldblooded killers. Hadn’t she witnessed their work? Hadn’t she felt Tribe’s hands around her neck, all over her, violating her? She swallowed her sobs. She’d never dwelled on the concept of her own death until now. With all she’d suffered and with death so near, she grew calm, almost welcomed it.
No.
Stop thinking this way. Don't give up. Don’t let them do this to you. You're still alive. You still have a chance. Come on. Think.
Ann turned to watch Engler on the pay phone, and the sun hit on something metal deep between the cushions of the seat beside her. A screwdriver. Tossed hastily into the truck last night. It glinted like hope. Ann used her free hand to slide it behind her. Out of sight.
Engler pounded the pay phone’s handset three times against the cradle, then strode to the SUV and got in. The engine roared and he left rubber pulling away.
“Hey!” Tribe moaned awake.
“You’re an asshole, Del! A sorry stupid twisted asshole! I should’ve known better. I should’ve damn well known better.”
Tribe worked himself to a sitting position, holding his cheek.
“Because of you we’re all over the news. Our pictures. Our names. Everything. Angel wants out of the deal.” Engler put his thumb and forefinger together and held them up. “We were this close! This close!” He tightened his grip on the wheel. “I told him we’ve come too far. I swear to you we’re going through with this. No way in hell are we turning back. We’ll speed things up. We’ll head to the meeting place tonight and give him a final chance to keep up his end. I’ve waited too long. I’ve paid too much to let this all die because of you.”
“Me!” Tribe winced, extracting a wet bloodied cotton ball from his mouth. “This whole thing went to hell the minute you flipped out in the jewelry store. Our problem is sitting right between us, brother, and it’s not too late to get rid of it.”
Bang!
Ann jumped, the truck swerved, her seat belt tightened. Tribe steadied himself, cursing, looking ar
ound to see who’d shot at them. Engler wrestled with the steering wheel as the truck bucked and vibrated to a stop.
“Blew a goddamned tire,” Engler said. “Get your ass out here and help me change it, Del. Move.”
They’d gone over a piece of rotted board with four six-inch spikes that shredded the steel-belted radial. Tribe and Engler began unloading the rear to get at the jack and full-sized spare, leaving Ann alone.
“Please. It’s so hot, can I have some air, please?” she said.
Engler looked at her. Checked her wrist cuff. Knowing the child safety lock kept her door secure, he dropped her power window before he returned to the rear. He and Tribe cursed each other as they worked.
It was a desolate stretch of back road cutting through a shady dense cottonwood forest. Ann let her head rest, drinking in the breezes that filled the truck and rekindled her hope. The networks had their pictures. Their names. It meant the police had to be close. She shut her eyes and bit her bottom lip. God. Please. She prayed for a patrol car, a stranger, anyone to happen by so she could scream for help.
Tools clanged and echoed with the chirping birds. The truck and Ann jerked as the jack ratcheted it up. Her feet slipped. For the first time since Engler had checked her ankle cuff that morning Ann noticed something that took her breath away. The handcuff around her ankle was open.
In his groggy state in the early dawn, after taking Ann to a roadside toilet, Engler had not closed it fully. The flat tire must’ve loosened it open. Hidden under the seat, her foot looked secure.
But it was free.
Ann’s mind raced. The screwdriver. It was behind her back. Reaching for it with her free left hand, Ann glanced at the handgrip. She knew from an auto upholstery job she’d had years ago that most grips and armrests were screwed to the door. The screw head was capped with a plastic plug.
Her body shook as the SUV jolted up. Naturally her free hand went to the grip. She pried off the screw cap in seconds. The screwdriver was a flat-head, the screw head was a star-point. Damn! She’d have to angle it in.
Engler and Tribe were working fast, finger-twisting the lug nuts off the raised damaged wheel, not watching Ann. Her hand was sweating. She was right-handed. It was difficult gripping the hard yellow plastic handle of the tool. She had it locked on the screw head but couldn’t get enough torque. It would not budge. She drew on strength she didn’t have. It wouldn’t budge. She kept trying. Her hand ached. Come on. Sweat dripped from her arm. Her hand was slipping. She rubbed her palm on her shirt Keep trying. The truck shook. They’d slammed the spare on. Come on. Ann gritted her teeth, angled the screwdriver in again. It locked. She clenched her jaw, thought of Zach, Tom, her mother. Pictured them helping her twist. Come on. Her hand, then her entire arm began shaking. Turn. Damn it! Turn. Ann felt it give.
