The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  If there was one thing Carla Meyor was sure of, it was this: people caught in a vise are prone to squeeze others…whatever it takes to relieve the pressure. It was just human nature—Percy believed it—and in her short time at the Bureau she’d seen it many times herself. She was being squeezed from both sides and she didn’t like it.

  ~~~~~~

  As it turned out, it didn’t take long at all for Archie and Carla to find themselves of the same accord. Some indefinable bond was being forged that neither could deny. Carla, drawn to the myth-like aura that had long defined the man—and Archie, attracted to a beautiful intelligent woman, who insisted on thinking for herself—despite nearly a decade of Percy Vermeer’s manipulative guidance.

  As the pair drove west in Carla’s rental and now well beyond the Arizona border, they calculated they had at least five or six hours before the Bureau figured out the extent of Carla’s involvement and issued warrants to ensnare the rogue agent. By that time the two of them should easily be in Phoenix and on a plane to somewhere else. It wasn’t going to be easy; there would be pitfalls, disagreements that come with any new relationship, not to mention adjusting to a new and very different life in another country. In the end, however, they felt their plans were both do-able and by far their best option. That was quite enough for now.

  ~~~~~~

  Archie sat at their little patio table stirring local cream into coffee freshly brewed from a highland roast. He smiled and doubted there was a more pleasant place in all San Miguel Allende. The cottage sat just north of town, in a little village close by the lake. He’d purchased the property some years back with the thought in mind he might someday retire there, or barring that, at least use it as a refuge. He’d kept his ownership secret, trusting in the interim to a property management company, a good one, who took care of every detail and had the highest regard for anonymity. The rental provided more than enough to maintain and improve the property, and a little besides.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment that he might savor these first hours of the day. He listened to the soft sounds of the housekeeper putting the kitchen in order after a late breakfast. There were birds singing in the tall hand-wrought cage behind him, and there, just by the ironwork gate, he could hear the calls of their wild cousins hiding in the flowering avocado tree. He watched as Carla puttered about the rosebushes adorning the adobe walls of the patio. A man came once a week to do the yard work and had shown her how to prune back the more mature flowers to encourage new blossoms. Archie thought she was taking too much stem, but didn’t say anything. It was too nice a morning.

  Eventually he turned his attention to the letter, unopened beside his cup. Sighing, he picked it up and inserted the little serrated fruit knife from breakfast. He should have waited until later in the day when he might have a drink before reading it. It was from his brother, of course. No one else could possibly know where they were. Mailed from a forwarding service outside the country, this was a mode of communication he trusted. He could not, however, imagine this letter being good news.

  He pursed his lips and narrowed an eye to better focus on the familiar script. It was a fairly long letter and Archie suspected therefore it might be the last. His brother was a cautious man not given to taking chances. Henry had a reputation to protect.

  Much of the letter was as he thought it would be, newsy and filled with home—except for the part about Percy, and then later the price on their heads. It really wasn’t that much money from what Archie knew of the business…almost disappointing in a way...he would have expected it to be a good bit more. Probably it was set by a vindictive member of the Ortiz family, one of the few not now in jail, maybe. He suspected the whole bunch were short on money, what with the federal attachments on nearly everything they owned. That might explain the paltry sum?

  Archie shook his head, smiling as Carla came up the path from her work with the flowers. She’d brought along a few long-stem red and pink roses, which she artfully arranged in the table vase.

  “It’s a letter from Henry, isn’t it?” She didn’t expect encouraging news. She suspected they had already used up their share of good luck.

  “Yes, yes it is.” He leaned toward the roses and sniffed. “Henry sold my place in New York; it was in his name anyway. I expect it will be a while before we see anything from it though. He’ll take his time like he always does. He’s the more careful one. That’s why he’s the lawyer, I suppose.”

  “Ah, well, I guess there’s some security in that line of work, or at least some comfort in thinking there is.”

  Both of them smiled at this. Carla glanced back, checking her recent work with the roses, before taking a chair just across from him.

  Archie passed her the letter, though not sure it was the right thing to do; she’d probably be better off not knowing.

  She began reading and only a few lines in he heard a catch in her breath. He knew she’d come to the part about Percy Vermeer. Henry told how Percy, devastated by the notoriety and long legal wrangling, had eventually been charged. Despite mounting a brilliant defense, his lawyers unaccountably, lost. On the day Percy was to report to the court he became fiercely depressed, locked himself in his office, put on Bach’s Toccata Fugue in D Minor, gradually increasing the volume until the windows shivered. He then took the handgun from his desk drawer…and put an end to the pain.

  Carla couldn’t help tearing up at the news.

  Archie understood, and though it was exactly the sort of thing he would expect Percy to do he, too, was inexplicably saddened. This, despite the certainty that, had Percy lived their lives would have been at even greater risk. It would have been a more certain peril than anything threatened by the Ortiz family. He was thinking to himself, just one less thing to worry about, and watched as Carla continued reading. Only moments later he saw her smile in spite of herself and knew she had come to the part about the price on their heads. Though in truth, it was now only his head on the block. The Ortiz quarrel was only with him, not Carla.

  “How could Henry possibly know this?”

  Archie smiled along as he held up a cautionary finger. “Oh, Henry has his ways… He has his own sources.” Archie became more serious as he went on, “And no, that’s not much money, in the States. But then, we’re not in the States.” He cleared his throat, “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about but it’s best to keep that sort of thing in perspective, don’t you think? It will keep us on our toes if nothing else.” Archie saw a shadow cross Carla’s face but still, slight though the risk might be, was glad he’d mentioned it. He considered eternal vigilance a part of the ongoing price they would pay for this new life.

  ~~~~~~

  During their self-imposed exile, Carla and Archie had fallen into a cautiously optimistic and even comfortable life in their little cottage at the edge of the village. Posing as a retired married couple and under assumed names, they gradually came to think they might have eluded detection, at least for the time being. They continued to stick close to home for the most part, and for all intents and purposes fit the profile of the many other ex-pat couples in the area. They’d heard no more from Henry Blumker but felt certain Archie’s brother would let them know should he learn of any impending threat. Eventually they were lulled into a guarded complacency, taking the occasional walk about the town plaza of an evening, and on market day enjoyed short forays to the local open-air market. Both Archie and Carla spoke decent beginner Spanish and had even picked up a few colloquialisms particular to the region. All in all, they conceded they were as happy as the situation would allow and thought their decision to remain there a while to be a good one.

  Walking to the plaza one evening Carla was delighted to discover a wedding in progress—the Church steps thronged with locals. The lucky couple was from prominent families who had gone all out to provide their children a memorable start to their marriage. A mariachi band was playing and a few locals along with ex-pats and a couple of more cautious tourists made up the begin
ning of a street dance. Carla found it charming and took Archie’s arm, leading him to the edge of the growing celebration. Archie, seeing Carla in such high spirits, allowed himself to join in despite his natural reluctance. The bells began to peal and the marriage party came laughing from the Church, causing the gathered crowd to break into a cacophony of cheers and calls of congratulations as a knot of dancers wended their way past.

  Archie never heard the shot, just quietly folded to his knees as though in supplication. Carla felt the tug on her arm and looked down to see him covered in blood, a look of total disbelief on his face. The moment seemed frozen in time. When Archie toppled forward, Carla, just beside him, instantly was aware he was beyond help. She looked up for a split second and was staring into the shooter’s face—they locked eyes for an instant before he disappeared into the crowd. Few were even aware what had taken place. As if in a trance, Carla rose to her feet and without any discernable expression of sorrow or grief turned and quietly made her way from the plaza—never to be seen in that place again.

  27

  The Aftermath

  Charlie Yazzie and Billy Red Clay, both bandaged and still lightly sedated, sat side by side in the waiting room. Billy for the third or fourth time, asked, “I wonder how he’s doing in there?” Without waiting for an answer, he touched the bulky bandages under his hospital scrubs. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the underarm leaving behind a relatively clean and uncomplicated wound. His surgeon expected it to heal without lasting effect. The head wound, while a deep furrow along the side of his scalp, required only scrupulous cleaning, antibiotics, and stitches before bandaging. From his comprehensive set of x-rays the radiologist could find nothing to indicate there might be any future problem. The concussion had knocked Billy out and he was still a little uncertain on his feet—but medical consensus held he was a lucky man…an inch more to the right, and he might have been dead.

  Charlie wondered privately if the trauma to Billy’s head was the reason he was repeating himself. The Investigator was well aware his own wound was comparatively minor alongside the others…he knew he’d been lucky. His left hand, encased in restrictive bandaging, more on the order of a cast actually, hurt like hell, he said, when asked. The bullet, entering between the last two fingers, ranged halfway up his left wrist to splinter bone and damage important ligaments. The surgeon first thought he might have to take the little finger off entirely. Now, however, it was thought both fingers might turn out to be only a little stiff—possibly affecting his grip—but no more than that, they thought.

  Sue had been there earlier and would be coming back with fresh clothes for both men as soon as the children got home from school. Billy didn’t want his mother notified, as she had been ill. He preferred telling her himself, later on, when she could see he was all right. Both men refused to leave the hospital until they knew more about Fred’s condition.

  It was FBI Agent Fred Smith that had everyone worried. When they brought him out of surgery his wife was the only one allowed in the recovery room and she had not left his side since, though it had been several hours. No one coming or going to Intensive Care seemed to know the extent of Fred’s injuries or his prognosis. At this point his friends could only hope for the best.

  ~~~~~~

  Billy Red Clay snored quietly as he slumped to the side of the lounge, one arm in a sling.

  Charlie, unable to sleep, looked Billy’s way occasionally, only to shake his head and turn back to his magazine article. The sound of the glass doors swinging open caused him to look up to see the Begay family coming. Thomas led, with old Paul T’Sosi bringing up the rear. The entire group had a grim look about them, determined, apparently, to see for themselves the extent of the injuries and hear directly what happened.

  Harley Ponyboy dawdling along behind the main force also appeared miffed…probably just because his friend Thomas was. He came no further than the entrance where he took up a station by the door. Leaning on an elbow at the end of the reception counter, he concentrated his gaze across the heads of those in the waiting room.

  Sue Yazzie was late returning, having had to go to the neighbor’s house for a babysitter.

  Sue, when she was first notified, immediately called Lucy Tallwoman, who instantly declared they would meet her at the hospital. “I’ll have to send Caleb for Thomas,” she said. “He’s gone to stand guard up on the hogback, to keep anyone from sneaking up on us now that the road has been cleared.”

  Now at the hospital, Thomas Begay, still in his heavy coat and broad brimmed hat—Levi’s still wet to the knees from wading snow—went directly to his sleeping nephew and nudged Billy’s foot. “How are you?” he asked gruffly, causing a few people to look their way. The Salt People are known for their ability to sleep anywhere and under any conditions; Thomas himself was famous for it. He nudged Billy again, and asked more loudly. “I say…”

  Billy opened his eyes to stare at his uncle as though unsure who he was.

  During all this Charlie Yazzie, sitting only a few feet away, looked straight ahead but made no comment. He knew Thomas was ignoring him, thinking him responsible for not knowing what was going on and leaving him to sit out there in the snow waiting for a killer who would never come.

  Billy Red Clay, coming fully awake, frowned up at his uncle. “Here I am, shot all to hell-pieces…and you kick me awake to see how I am?”

  “You don’t look all that bad to me.” Thomas reached out to touch the dressing on his nephew’s head. “Does it hurt?”

  “It does when you push on it.” Billy knew his uncle wasn’t any happier with him, than he was with Charlie.

  “You should have called me!” Thomas couldn’t understand not being notified.

  “Yes, all it would have taken was a call and you could have been sitting here with a bullet in you, too.” Billy was in no mood for his uncle’s indictment and looked away as he said, “Maybe you’re right…maybe I should have called you.”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed and he frowned, before turning to glower at Charlie Yazzie. “I damn sure expected more from you. You said you’d let me know what was going on—it was colder’n a frog’s wiener up there on that ridge.”

  Charlie, looked his friend directly in the eye without blinking; knowing full well that would make the man uncomfortable. When finally the Investigator did open his mouth it was with a rueful smile, “I thought there wouldn’t be much to it. It wasn’t like we knew what was going to happen. I figured Fred was kidding when he said there might be shooting.”

  Thomas stood staring back a moment, then dropping his gaze, let it wander around the room before coming back to Charlie’s hand. Shrugging helplessly, he asked, “What’s going to happen with Fred?”

  “No one knows that yet…”

  Paul T’Sosi had taken a chair at the far side of the waiting area where there was some elbowroom. The old Singer was rocking back and forth mouthing a chant, bits and pieces of an Enemy Way. That’s what Harley Ponyboy thought it was anyway, and he smiled as several white people got up and moved away.

  The old man recalled the time when Charlie’s son, Joseph Wiley, was born. Paul had been at the hospital doing a chant then, too, convinced the baby had need of his prayers.

  After warning the old man to hold it down a time or two, the young orderly, a Navajo himself and more than a little nervous to be messing with a Singer; did eventually screw up his courage and escorted Paul from the room. That was some years back, but even now the old man hadn’t forgotten it.

  Paul was much quieter this time around, hoping to avoid that sort of embarrassment. Already a few white people were muttering under their breath and darting looks his way. A local Methodist minister frowned over at Paul and shook his head. He was there to counsel relatives of a dying man, and thought he should be the one doing the praying.

  Charlie raised his head and gazed around the circle, a few of them now chanting along with Paul. His frown gradually softened as he considered these people who had
come to express their concern and offer good wishes. These were his people, and while they might seem strange to some—he knew this was a show of support and a genuine token of their good will. For the Diné this was in itself, a kind of medicine—a sincere attempt to bring about a higher state of Hozo for everyone there. He could not fault them for that. It was the Navajo way. More and more, he was coming to understand that.

  28

  The Way of It

  Lucy Tallwoman was no more inclined to believe her father’s new Albuquerque specialist than she had his previous advisors in Farmington. She did, however, convince the doctor to help get Paul signed up for a proposed medical trial he’d mentioned. She’d told him, “Those people should have an Indian or two in their program,” and then insisted her father would be a good choice. She swore, that she herself would oversee his medications and keep track of improvements, should there be any.

  Lucy made a strong argument—winding it up by saying her Uncle John Nez was on the Tribal Council, and that she would soon be, herself. While not true in the strictest sense, the possibility was in the offing. She had declared for the next election and was readying her campaign. Aided and abetted by Thomas’s Uncle John she was now convinced it was within her grasp. She made it clear to the doctor there were a good many people on the reservation in need of such treatment and she meant to be an advocate for them. “Also,” she mentioned, “the State of New Mexico keeps a close eye on the denial of such privileges to its Native peoples.” She said this by way of inferring a Council Member had a lot of pull with state lawmakers, which, unfortunately, was seldom the case.