“How did you know what it was, Harley?” Charlie wouldn’t have had a clue…but he wouldn’t have messed with it either.
“I probably wouldn’t have recognized it…if I hadn’t been with the old man last week when he picked up a box of them from someone he had meet him at the Co-op. There were five or six of these things in an old wooden case. I could see Paul didn’t want me to know what he had, so I just let on like I didn’t know what they were. But I knew all right. I wish now I hadn’t taken him ta town in the first place, but I did, and there it is.” Harley’s voice dropped to a whisper and the other two had to lean in to make out what he was saying. “It took me a bit ta ease it out of that woodpecker hole without it going off; I made sure I was standing up-wind as I pulled it out. I really didn’t think it would work as old as it was. I set it off with a long stick and it surprised me when it went off.
Thomas sniffed, “Pretty smart old man, I guess, anyone up there spying is going to wind up under that old cedar. It’s the only real cover. He chuckled to himself and elbowed Charlie. “Even you, Charlie—that’s where you first came up on our camp in the dead of night.” He smiled, “It was old man Paul who spotted you back then and called you out.”
Charlie smiled in spite of himself nodding at a memory he’d hoped was forgotten.
Harley had heard the story, of course, and smiled along with them.
“What else did you find up there?” Charlie was deadly serious now and so was Thomas. They settled in to hear what he found out…and then decide what they were going to do about it.
Harley, keeping his voice low, said the sign pointed to two separate people, besides Paul, being up on the point recently. Probably, the outsiders were there no more than a few hours apart. “From what I could see both watched and studied the camp for a good bit. They came and went by the same route.” Harley paused and again tasted his coffee, making a face as he realized he still hadn’t doctored it. “As you might guess, the old man was the last one up there; his was the last tracks going out to the point.” Harley forced a grin. “That may be why there was no dead people waiting for me under that tree.” He stopped for a moment as he went back over everything in his mind, making sure he had left nothing out. “I expect Paul was right about those two. And he might have had a good chance of getting one of them, too…if I hadn’t found that gitter first.”
Charlie’s question was, “I wonder how he thought he’d get rid of a body if someone did fall for his little trap?” He couldn’t picture the old man dragging a body out of there by himself, not to mention getting rid of it.
With a halfway smile, Thomas cleared his throat, “I suppose that’s where I would have come in.” For a brief moment he tried to imagine helping his father-in-law dispose of a body. Thomas was traditional minded enough to abhor the very thought of grabbing hold of a dead person. It had him shaking his head as he fell into a more contemplative frame of mind. The fact of the business was—family was family. Clearly, he would have done what he had to do to help old Paul T’Sosi cover the misdeed. He looked over their heads to stare through the window as he murmured, “People disappear on the Dinétah all the time. Always have. You both know that.”
Charlie glanced over at him. “Lets just be glad it didn’t come to that. I don’t know what kind of case I could have made for either of you…not one that would have done much good I’m afraid.”
Thomas threw him a serious look. “The bottom line is there were two different people up there on that ridge and on separate occasions, too. Whether they were connected or not, we don’t know, but I have to think one or the other of ‘em will be back at some point. Those two were obviously up to no good—you can count on that—we already know there’s someone out there willing to kill.” He spread the fingers of his right hand and studied it for a few seconds. “I know how Paul must have felt, worried about Lucy and the kids and all. I doubt he would have even thought of something like this had he been in his right mind.” No one had an argument for that.
Charlie rubbed his forehead as he sometimes did when he was getting a headache. It didn’t happen often, but it was happening now. He started to say something but thought better of it and lowered his head for a moment hoping it would go away.
Harley who hadn’t said much up to this point lifted an index finger to the two. “Right now it looks like we either bring in the Feds…or we handle it our own damn self…it wouldn’t be the first time.”
Charlie appeared uncomfortable with this line of reasoning. But Harley was right; it wouldn’t be the first time.
20
The Decision
There was no doubt whatsoever in Archie Blumker’s mind, about where all this was headed. Nor was there any doubt who would have to fix it—if it could be fixed. He seriously doubted Carla was equipped to take charge of the situation. FBI training aside, this job would take more than a course in Covert Intervention, or whatever the boys down at Quantico were calling it these days. Percy Vermeer, on the other hand, seemed to have an unquenchable faith in the woman, but then Percy had never been in the trenches. The man didn’t have a clue as to how the nuts and bolts went together. The question in Archie’s mind was—did The Factor intend him to assume responsibility at this point? That’s what he would normally do. Or, was he to await instructions from Carla? That was the impression she’d left at their last meeting. The woman had obviously been groomed and manipulated from her school days with an eye to just such a time as this. Who really knew what she could do should push come to shove? One thing he was pretty sure of…things were going to get interesting.
On his way down to the truck, Archie rolled the problem around in the back of his head. He couldn’t help returning to the Vermeer Foundation report; he’d spent the entire morning memorizing every word of the file. The photos were indelibly imprinted in his mind, for what that might be worth; should he run into any of these people, they would most likely look nothing at all like their photos. The organization was not unknown to him and he’d long been aware their interests lay in the same area as the Vermeer Foundation. Still, he had never once crossed paths with them and now, in a rare moment of self-doubt, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. As he re-ran the information in his mind, he couldn’t help wondering who they’d sent. Surely it can’t be who Percy thinks it is, the man with no name, as the report refers to him.
Archie’s heard rumors of this particular operative for nearly ten years—a long time for a person in this line of work. He thinks, he must have some age on him by now. The thought makes him feel better. His professional pride won’t allow him to think he’s not up to this. The niggling fact remains, however, the man has already taken out two of Vermeer’s best people, the last one a good friend of Archie’s. They were every bit as good as me.
An unknown operative that comes from nowhere, and by all accounts has never failed—what’s to be made of that?
Returning from lunch, Archie was about to turn into the motel when he recognized a familiar car parked just up the street, no more than a half-block away. He smiled and without hesitation drove on past the vehicle with hardly a glance. He does, however, see Carla brush aside an errant curl of hair, the signal to back off. The woman must suspect she’s being watched. What? she can’t risk even a call from a public phone booth? This could throw a wrench in the works. He’s certain she’s received the same information packet as he, but doubts they are dealing with a rogue operative. More than likely it’s one of her own from the FBI. This could be a game-changer and might well put the ball back in his court.
Archie knows better than to just circle the block. He keeps on course for the next major thoroughfare, where he angles off and stops at a neighborhood bar and grill. Taking his time over a frosty mug he plays the ancient pinball machine, something he hasn’t done in twenty years…and it shows. A pair of small-town pool hustlers at a back table look up from their game, nudge one another and hide smiles. Archie realizes he has been manhandling the machine, bumping it at just the right momen
t to deflect the steel ball in the proper direction. That was the style in his younger days. Such a tactic took considerable skill if one was to avoid setting off the tilt alarm; which would inevitably shut the machine down and raise the ire of the proprietor.
The two men at the pool table grin at one another and look toward the bartender who’s frowning across the room at Archie. The ex-cop finishes his play with a high score and, as he leaves the establishment nods to the pool sharks without shame. One salutes him with his stick, and Archie wishes he had time to give them a lesson in the finer points of that game as well.
Back at the motel, and still on guard, Archie is fairly confident he wasn’t tailed but surmises there might yet be someone waiting…watching. Archie’s very good at blending in—no one could say he isn’t a local oil-field hand waiting for a call from some tool pusher. There are several of those staying here. He walks past his room to the end of the hall and the ice machine. Filling a bucket, he retraces his steps to the room, cautiously glancing at each door as he passes.
This time Archie checks and sees the tiny piece of clear plastic still in the bottom edge of the door where no one ever seems to check. It is exactly as he’d left it. Smiling, he unlocks the door, key in one hand, cradling the ice bucket to his chest with the other. Carla sits across the room resting her elbow on the table, a 1910 model FN automatic in her hand, business-like even by today’s standard; the little Belgium pistol looks elegantly deadly even in her small hand. It occurs to him this is the exact model that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in 1914 ultimately setting off one of history’s bloodiest wars. With this still in his mind, Archie crosses to the dresser, takes a bottle from the top drawer and wonders how Carla came by the pistol, he hasn’t seen one in years. He brought the bottle and ice to the table without a word.
Carla saw him looking at the pistol and laid it aside. She’d left her larger service revolver in her room, preferring the less obtrusive little automatic for walking around protection. The Agent turned up two glasses and set them back on their paper doilies. Holding one finger high on the glass nearest her she waited for him to pour, took a healthy drink, and then smacked her lips. The woman is a one-off, no doubt about that.
“No one followed you?” Archie poured himself about half the amount and sipped it as he looked across the table at her.
“Not that I saw…but then I probably wouldn’t have, would I?” She was breathing more easily now and didn’t appear embarrassed to admit this, “It was more of a gut feeling than anything else, I suppose. I get those now and then—I’ve learned to pay attention.”
He nodded and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I had one of those myself, yesterday morning early. I thought I was just getting old and scary. He glanced toward the window. “Where’s your car?”
“In the little shopping mall three blocks from here.” She smiled. “I shopped awhile and then called a cab. A maid was coming out the back door and I told her I was locked out. She probably thought I was a hooker but let me in anyway.”
“You got Percy’s info packet?”
“I did.” Carla reached over to scoop a few more ice cubes into her glass, and Archie poured her a splash more.
“So are you in charge down here now,” he asked with a wry smile.
“Is that what you think?”
“It occurred to me.”
The two stared at one another for a moment, Carla being the first one to blink. “I’m not in charge,” She said this with a finality that surprised him.
“Then, exactly why are you here?”
She swirled the ice in her drink sloshing a few drops across the table. “Why, just doing my job—I’m your backup Archie—that’s why I’m here.”
Archie took a deep breath and another sip before saluting her with his glass and nodding amiably. “I’m guessing you have something new to tell me?”
“A couple of things actually. There’s a Navajo Investigator involved in the Johnson murder case; you may want to watch out for him. His name is Charlie Yazzie, with the tribe’s Legal Services Office. He has a good rapport with the Bureau but keeps his own agenda as well.” She smiled thoughtfully. “He hangs out with a couple of old friends who occasionally work for him. One of them is Lucy Tallwoman’s husband, Thomas Begay, the other, a tracker named Harley Ponyboy. They are close—almost like clan. They look out for one another apparently.” Carla thought a moment, considering how to go about the second piece of information.
“And the other thing?”
“Investigator Yazzie informed us through channels that there is now reason to believe Clifford Johnson may have had two visitors on the morning he was killed. The first you already know, an ex-cop from Albuquerque named Ray Danson.” She waited…idly wondering if he would own up to killing Big Ray.
Archie nodded noncommittally and sat back in his chair. This news confirmed what Ray Danson had maintained right along—the man had indeed been straight with him. He felt no remorse at hearing this—Big Ray got what he had coming, as had Raul Ortiz. They had chosen a risky profession and suffered the consequences. It happens.
“Do they know who the second person was that morning at the trading post?”
“Only that he was probably with Cliff Johnson’s wife, Louise. Cliff was most likely dead when they left.”
Archie cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on the edge of the table. It had crossed his mind, several times, that Louise might have something to do with her husband’s death. He’d already guessed the woman wasn’t happy with the trader. What angered him most was that someone else had been smart enough to work that angle first. He thought he would have more time…
“That’s not all. Our agents confirm they’ve found a Farmington storage unit registered in Clifford Johnson’s name…a big one…climate controlled. The owner said Cliff had it for years. Last night someone with the keys to the gated entry, and the unit itself, drove a box-truck in, transferred the collection to the truck, and was gone in a matter of forty-five minutes or so. The storage company doesn’t maintain a fulltime presence on site but does have a local security firm check the premises every few hours…24/7. It was well executed—maybe no more than one or two people involved. The rent-a-cop said there was still dust hanging in the air when he discovered the unit open.” Carla watched his expression, as she said, “The Johnsons have long been known to have a large and valuable personal collection of Native art and artifacts. They’d been salting the stuff away for years and knew better than to keep it at the trading post; Cliff was robbed there once before. Their live pawn was kept there, of course, in a huge old safe Cliff bought years ago, but it wouldn’t have held even a small part of their own collection.”
Archie went slant eyed as this registered. “Someone must have had better powers of persuasion than Ray Danson… Or me,” he added ruefully. Archie was thinking of his many conversations with Clifford Johnson, trying to work out some sort of agreement for the Vermeer Foundation. Even his attempts to form some sort of alliance with Louise Johnson had been fruitless.
Carla guessed what he was thinking. “I wouldn’t feel too badly about it. I’ve read the autopsy reports—the information didn’t come easy for whoever wound up with it.”
“Ray Danson and I were both under orders not to leave any collateral damage in the wake of our negotiations. Both of us thought that sort of thinking a mistake at the time, but that’s how Percy wanted it. I imagine he’s rethinking that part now.” He swirled the ice in his glass and looked over at her. “Percy’s not always right, you know. You might want to consider that going forward.”
Carla gave a tiny sigh. “Percy prefers to do this sort of thing in as unobtrusive a manner as humanly possible…when he can. He just didn’t realize how urgent the situation had become.”
“Yes, well we both misjudged the time factor on this one, I’m afraid.
Carla gave him an odd look, which he interpreted, incorrectly, as disagreement.
Archie wonder
ed if she really considered herself his backup.
21
The Storm
Up on the Canadian border, a remarkably rapid shift in the Jet Stream was sending an arctic air mass hurtling south with unprecedented speed. The front was reportedly accompanied by serious temperature extremes. Dubbed the Arctic Express it had stockmen across several states hurrying to gather livestock and bring them in closer to home. Fortunately, most of those cattle and sheep had already been brought down from the high country, mostly thanks to regulatory grazing mandates.
It had been a long and hot summer in northwestern New Mexico, morphing seamlessly into a warmer than usual autumn; just the sort of pattern that can precede a swift change in that country. There had been little rain—just enough, in fact, to leave people in the far reaches of the Dinétah praying for more.
By sunup, most folks were surprised to see a dark bank of clouds boiling out of the northwest and already on the edge of the state line where it was pummeling a wide swath of Colorado and Utah. Reports on KTNN’s Daybreak Weather declared a change was on the way. “Due to several unforeseen weather anomalies,” the announcer said, “the system could be severe and blow in sooner than anticipated.” The weatherman’s tone didn’t sound overly concerned, but then he was in a nice warm studio and didn’t have to rustle around in the snow for firewood or hustle livestock to better cover.
~~~~~~
Legal Services Investigator Charlie Yazzie was satisfied the FBI would find his newfound witness credible. There was no doubt now, at least in his own mind, that Frances Benally had seen exactly what she said she saw the morning Clifford Johnson was murdered. Thinking of the sad disappearance of Louise Johnson, Charlie couldn’t help but believe that same person might be responsible for both tragedies. The question uppermost in his mind now was…would it end there? On the surface one would think so, but there was something askew somewhere that caused him a measure of uncertainty. Harley Ponyboy had tracked two men suspected of spying on Lucy Tallwoman’s camp and followed sign leading to two separate vehicles. The one, he’d thought was a pickup; the other a car, both had the generic sort of tire-tread patterns typically found on cheaply shod rental vehicles. Why did these two people come separately? Was one even aware of the other? And more important, what were they after? Both Thomas Begay, and Harley Ponyboy, postulated theories for this—all so far fetched as to beggar credibility.
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