Chapter 22

 

 

Dammit. Ben hadn’t planned on a second night on the road. Should he have checked the truck before he took off? But check for what? Would he have caught a frayed serpentine belt? He doubted it. And when you rented one of these trucks, couldn’t you count on it coming recently serviced and trustworthy? More than just tread on the tires and all fully inflated. Obviously not. At least someone had filled the tank but that didn’t mean anything now. And could he be absolutely certain that he hadn’t been set up to fail? Have the truck break down? He had to stop thinking this way, questioning every little thing that happened. He took a deep breath and dialed Sandy Black’s number only to find he was on his way to a conference in Dallas.

Ben was thinking maybe he could borrow a car, drive to the Rez, and return after the new truck was secured and ready to go. A waste of time and energy but he worried about the boys. He didn’t have a Plan B other than to stay the night in Albuquerque. So, he made arrangements for another night at the motel he’d stayed at last night and called a cab. It was another Lotaburger chile cheeseburger dinner. Which actually he wasn’t complaining about. He knew between the reservation, and Florida, he wouldn’t get another one for a while.

He tossed his duffle on the bed, turned on the TV and flipped to a station that looped the current news for twenty-four hours when it hit him. He’d left the borrowed gun that the chief had given him under the driver’s seat in the U-Haul’s cab. Originally, he’d tucked it in his duffle, he wished he’d left it there.

Well, there was no way he was going to take a chance on someone else finding it and helping themselves to a nice little .38 with leather holster. He felt foolish. He just wasn’t used to having a gun. But that was no excuse for not taking care of it. He called a cab and went back down Central to the rental agency.

It was almost nine. Did he expect someone to be there? He guessed he had hoped a mechanic was putting in a little overtime, but the office was locked up tight with only a couple lights on—both illuminating U-Haul advertising hanging in the front window. The agency bordered on an alley with a good-sized fenced area securing other rentals. The twenty-foot box truck was the largest vehicle on the lot. He could see it in the far corner as he rounded the corner of the building.

Instantly, he knew something was wrong. Very wrong. The office furniture, desks, chairs, white board, were all scattered in the yard. It looked as if they had been thrown there. And the back doors to the truck were wide open. The ‘holding pen’ as the manager had referred to it behind the office was surrounded by six-foot, chain-link fencing with a razor-wire top. Double gates facing the ally were wide open. Ben didn’t think twice but entered the yard and sprinted toward the truck and the open cargo doors. The truck was empty. Not one box. Not even the cartons containing his household goods.

Ben pulled out his phone and dialed 911 as he walked to the cab to see if the gun was still there. It didn’t look as if the cab had been touched. He pulled a Kleenex out of his jeans pocket and opened the door. He reached under the seat. The gun was there. But what happened next was a blur of activity. At the very exact time the 911 operator came on the phone line with, “What’s your emergency?” three patrol cars screeched to a halt at the gate, with four cops leaping out and running toward him.

“Hold it right there. Hands in the air.” The lead officer came through the gate motioning the others to fan out covering all sides of the truck.

“He’s got a gun!” The yell ended with two cops hitting the ground, their own weapons drawn.

Another cop came up behind Ben, knocked the gun out of his hand and slammed him against the truck. “Okay, Red—on the ground, hands behind your back.” The cop kicked Ben’s feet out from under him and fell on top of him, a knee planted in the middle of his back before grabbing Ben’s hands at the wrist and slapping cuffs in place. It took two cops to drag all of Ben’s six-foot-two frame upright, once again bending him back-side first against the truck.

“Why don’t you assholes stay on the reservation. We don’t need you here causing trouble. Whose gun did you steal? Betcha we’ll find this one listed as missing from someone’s home. Breaking and entering looks like your speed. What’d ya get out of this truck?”

“I’d like you to pick up my phone and slip it in my pocket.” Ben was pissed but also knew he needed to be careful. He kept his voice steady, and willed himself to be polite. This was the kind of situation that could escalate in a heartbeat and he wouldn’t be on the winning side.

“Oh, you would, would you? Just step and fetch it. That’s me, let some Indian order me around. Hey, Dirk, take this asshole’s phone.” The cop scooped up the phone and tossed it to the cop beside him. “If you’re nice, you just might get it back. But, oh, I just remembered, you’ll be under arrest—no phones where you’re going.”

“You might want to hear my side of the story—what I’m doing here.”

“I doubt it. You probably wouldn’t even recognize the truth if it bit you in the ass. Dirk, take our guy downtown. There’s plenty of time for your side of the story. Then run down the manager of the U-Haul agency and get him out here. We need to know what’s missing.”

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t even an apology—at least not from the cop who had cuffed him. The sergeant on duty that evening turned himself inside out trying to circumvent what he anticipated as Ben filing a complaint. But that wasn’t going to happen. Ben wasn’t sure complaints didn’t do more harm than good. There was no changing the cop’s attitude by singling him out for punishment.

It was after midnight before Ben walked out the front door of the station. He’d spent two hours locked up before Chief Billie and IHS could verify his credentials and why he was in Albuquerque, corroborated by the U-Haul manager. He was allowed a phone call around ten-thirty to check on the boys and Trini assured him all was well.

“I just looked out my window and one of the boys must have been in the kitchen because someone turned the light out. After taking the horses up to the north pasture to graze this morning, I bet they’re tired. Don’t worry Dr. Pecos, I’ll make certain they get a good breakfast. I’m so sorry you’re having all this trouble.”

That was a relief. It was good to know the boys were safe. Yeah, they complicated life but in a good way. It would be impossible to imagine life without Zac.

He couldn’t get a ride back to the reservation before morning and that was going to be with the same tech who had brought him to Albuquerque. He doubted he’d get much sleep, but one of the cops gave him a ride back to the motel.

 

 

Ben’s longest phone conversation was with Chief Billie. Who could have known what the U-Haul held? Could it have been just a lucky score? No. That wasn’t even a possibility. Not when the cargo was so specialized. Only someone who could fence a few hundred thousand dollars in PPE—had buyers lined up and waiting—would be interested. But who? This was a best-kept secret. Ben had been careful to tell Trini about office furniture, nothing else, and Dr. Black was well aware of the need to keep quiet.

No, the way the heist was done—early in the evening when adjoining businesses were all closed for the day; the building cameras disconnected along with yard lights; maybe another U-Haul was used to transfer goods, something that wouldn’t raise suspicion but could get in and out of the yard and down the alley hardly noticed—these were all marks of a professional operation. Or at least one that had been carefully thought out, been done before. There was no way that Ben thought this was anyone’s first rodeo. He had been right, but there was no joy in knowing he had been set up.

But how had they known? Nothing had been written down. Nothing outlining the truck’s contents, or giving destinations. At least, not that he’d known about. Unless there were some pretty adept mind-readers, there was just no way anyone could have known about the shipment. But the shocking thing? The mechanic from the U-Haul agency told him that the alternator belt had been sliced—a cut difficult to detect but guaranteed to unravel and do exactly what it did, strand the driver and render the truck undriveable. Now that had taken some planning.