He stayed put. As the noise of the motor raising the garage door started up, Charlie heard a faint thump overhead. Somebody was on the roof. He held his breath, hoping Anna hadn’t noticed.
Anna started the Ford’s engine, and when the door mechanism stopped, he heard the crunch of tires on the concrete garage floor as she backed out of the garage.
“Stop the car and lower the weapon!” Nancy yelled from somewhere close by.
Charlie spun around and dove to his left, out of Anna’s view.
“Do it!” Gordon yelled from above.
Charlie rose to his knees, eyeing the gap on his side of the garage beyond Anna’s gold sedan. He thought about it a second before realizing that running outside now could get him shot by a jumpy cop.
Tires squealed and he saw an APD cruiser pulling into the driveway, blocking Anna’s escape car. A uniformed officer raced up to the passenger side, riot gun aimed through the open window. The cop glanced over and saw Charlie, who held up his hands to show he was unarmed. The cop nodded, his weapon still aimed at Anna.
Charlie remained low as Nancy came up, handgun ready, and took Anna’s revolver. “Now turn off the engine and step out. Keep your hands where I can see them,” Nancy added.
Anna turned off the engine.
“She has my Beretta somewhere,” Charlie said, standing up and stepping out of the garage.
“It’s on the passenger seat,” the officer with the shotgun said.
“Don’t shoot,” Anna said, lifting her hands off the steering wheel, palms up. “I’m going to open the door.”
Once Anna climbed out, she turned, hands behind her back, as Nancy put on the cuffs.
“You okay, pal?” Gordon asked.
Charlie turned around and looked up at his friend, who was crouched, pistol in hand, on the garage roof.
”Yeah,” Charlie answered. “Thought it might be you up there, light on your feet. My new guardian angel.”
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Gordon joked, holstering his handgun. “Now I’ve got to find an easy way back down. That peach tree I climbed was scratchy.”
Charlie looked into the garage. “There’s a ladder in here. I’ll bring it out.”
“That’ll do.”
As Charlie moved the ladder against the side of the garage, he turned his head and saw Anna being placed in the cop car.
“Any idea what’s in the dusty gym bag, Charlie?” Nancy called out, looking into the interior of Anna’s Ford. “Money? An escape kit?”
“Probably some of the cash she skimmed from Back Up.” He turned and pointed into the garage. “It was hidden behind that busted Sheetrock. I wasn’t looking, but I heard her break it loose.”
Nancy nodded, then came over and gave him a handshake that turned into a hug. “You did a great job, Charlie, and I’m glad you kept it together. I’m sure she killed Nathan, and I was afraid you were next,” she added, stepping back. “She almost lost it for a moment.”
“Yeah, accusing her of killing Nathan was a dumb thing to say at the time. Oh, is the bug still on?” He glanced down at his crotch. “This thing itches like hell.”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me. While you were stalling we had to get into position,” Nancy said. She reached into her jacket pocket, brought out a smartphone, and touched the screen. Several seconds later, she looked up and put the device back into her pocket. “A copy has been delivered to the station’s server.”
Gordon, off the roof now, stepped up and gave Charlie a hug and a handshake. “You done good! For a moment there, in the Back Up office, Nancy thought we might need to crash the party, especially when Anna started checking you for the wire.”
“I’m glad she was in a hurry and didn’t order me to ‘drop trou.’ By then I believed she just wanted to get away clean. Nathan had enough evidence hidden up in those cloud files to send her to prison. His mistake was confronting her first without telling anyone,” Charlie said.
“I think Nathan wanted to save Back Up’s reputation,” Gordon concluded.
“I wonder. Did she kill him to cover up her thefts, or did she finally lose it when she knew that Patricia had won him back?” Charlie asked Nancy.
“Jealousy was always part of the picture,” Nancy suggested. “That had to burn.”
“And Anna couldn’t kill the ex-wife because that wouldn’t solve the theft issue,” Gordon pointed out.
Nancy looked down the street, noting the arrival of more vehicles, including the crime scene van. “Guys, I’ve got more work to do, but stay close. On the way over here, I got in touch with DuPree, but I haven’t had the time to get him up to speed. He’s going to have a lot of questions,” she added.
“I’m hoping this is the last of all this. Whoever it turns out to be, I think Captain Whitaker’s killer is finally in custody. I’m going to call Ruth at the shop and see how things are going,” Charlie said, then noticed both Nancy and Gordon smiling. “What?”
* * *
Several minutes later, while the guys were seated on the lawn in the shade, a neighbor man who’d been watching from his porch came up to the yellow crime scene tape and motioned to Charlie. “What’s going on with the cops, buddy? Somebody break into Azok’s place? Poor guy’s suffered enough. I heard he blew himself up the other day.”
Gordon and Charlie exchanged glances, then they both stood and walked over to the stranger. “You’re talking about Steven Azok, right?” Charlie prodded. “How long had he been living here?”
“Just about a month, I recall,” the man said. “We shared a couple beers on my porch and Steve told me he and his wife were going to be getting back together again. He was thinking about buying this place and fixing it up. I’ve been wondering why the police never came here after he died.”
“He had an apartment as well, so maybe they didn’t know about this place. Unfortunately for him, I heard his attempt at reconciliation fell apart,” Gordon said.
“Small wonder. Steve had this blond gal coming over at odd hours. Decent-looking too, but not at all friendly. Wouldn’t even look at me. Hey, that’s her car in the garage,” he said. “I remember the bumper stickers.”
“Yeah, that’s right, bud. By the way, I’m Charlie and this is Gordon.”
“Pat Reed,” the man said, shaking their hands. “You guys narcs?”
“Can’t say,” Charlie said. “But you’d better stick around. The detectives are going to want to interview you. Maybe you can help seal the conviction of that terrorist.”
“What does that have to do with Azok?” Reed asked.
Just then Charlie heard the door leading from the house into the garage open, and out came Detective DuPree.
“Hey, guys, you’ll never guess who’s been renting this house,” DuPree said.
“Wanna bet?” Gordon replied with a smile. “Detective, you’re gonna want to talk to Mr. Reed here. He’s got some very interesting information to share about Mr. Azok and a certain lady bookkeeper.”
“I hope it helps with the homicide cases. The Arab guy the Feds nailed the other day has an airtight alibi for the Whitaker shooting. All they have on him now is failure to love America,” DuPree commented dryly. “They had to let him go.”
“It looks like most of the danger has passed, then, from the terrorist angle. Any word from the marshal’s service regarding Lawrence Westerfield’s status?” Charlie asked.
“According to Stannic, the men captured in New Jersey have been positively identified as participants in his escape. They’ve already told the Feds that Westerfield claimed to be heading for Canada with another of their crew. They couldn’t give any description of that guy, however; he’s always worn a mask, even around them. All they said was that the guy acted ex-military, or law enforcement, and had a Southern accent,” DuPree added. “Deputy Marshal Stannic has already given Ruth the updates. He’s going to make sure Ruth and Rene make it home safely.”
“You going to spend the night there?” Gordon asked.
“Probably a good idea,” Charlie said, looking forward to seeing her and Rene again, after what could have been his last day in this world.
* * *
Gordon and Charlie didn’t make it back to the shop before Ruth left to pick up Rene from school, so the guys sent Jake home, then stayed until closing. Charlie called Ruth to check on her, and right away she asked him to come over for dinner and spend the night at her apartment—on the sofa. He agreed, eager to spend whatever time he could with Ruth. They still had a first date to make up and, besides, he could look after her at the same time.
Almost nervous now as he locked the back door, Charlie turned and waved as Gordon drove off, a silly grin on his pal’s face. Tomorrow, hopefully, they would be back to close to normal, or as normal as could be in his life. He also knew that his own car would be available again and he could pick it up at impound. The rental was fine, but it wasn’t a Charger.
The drive to her apartment building was routine, but Charlie found himself shaking just a little as he pulled up into the covered parking lot for residents. There was an open slot next to Ruth’s small sedan. Luck was certainly on his side at the moment. It had been a long day. He was feeling weary and worn-out and what kept his head up was knowing he’d be seeing Ruth. Any time with her was the bright spot in his day.
Charlie glanced around, noting that most of the parking spaces were in use. This building catered to an older clientele, mostly retired couples, and Ruth and Rene were as safe here as anyplace in the city. Stepping out of the car, he thumbed the key fob to lock up and walked toward the main entrance. A tall, older woman with silver hair and a long print dress had her back to him, reaching into the backseat of a car for a bag of groceries.
“Hi, Charlie!” came a distinctive male voice as the woman turned to face him.
He instantly recognized Ruth’s ex-husband, Lawrence, who was disguised as a woman. Charlie reached down for his Beretta. Suddenly his body was wracked with agonizing pain. He turned his head as he fell to the asphalt, realizing he’d just been tased. A man wearing a camo mask and ball cap was standing there.
“Don’t fight it,” the guy ordered in a Southern drawl. He lowered the Taser device in his left hand, but raised a pistol in his right.
There was a small plop, and Charlie looked down through watery eyes at a tranquilizer dart stuck in his gut. As he fumbled for his pistol, Charlie felt a massive impact at the back of his head and everything went dark.
Charlie woke up on his back upon a cold, hard-metal, uneven surface. He was covered by some kind of cheap tarp, judging from the strong, plastic smell of the material. His head was throbbing and his hands were tied behind his back with what felt like rope. He tried to roll over to relieve the cramp in his arms, then realized his hands were also connected to some unyielding surface.
As his thoughts cleared, he discovered he was tied to the bed of a pickup and not a van, based upon the roar of the road and the rush of wind across the open bed that caused the tarp to flap up and down. The tarp was tied down as well, but at least he could breathe, and he wasn’t wounded, and hopefully not dead and in limbo. He’d suffered the blow to the head and the obvious scrape and scratches incurred when he was thrashing about from being tased, but he knew he’d be capable of fighting back when the opportunity came.
He extended his legs, probing the bed of the pickup and restoring circulation at the same time. Charlie was grateful that he was the only person back here. On the down side, Gordon was probably at home, and Turner was watching over Dawud Koury and his family, which meant he’d be elsewhere. He could use some help right now.
With no idea where he was, or where Ruth’s ex and his masked companion were taking him, Charlie knew that his captors had kept him alive only because killing him outside the apartment would gather way too much attention and leave a mess. There was no doubt in his mind, once Westerfield had shown himself, that this was intended to be a one-way trip, and not to Canada. He and Gordon had destroyed Westerfield’s attempt to kidnap Ruth and their son a few years ago, and this had led to the man’s arrest by the FBI. If they wanted him to dig his own grave, at least he could deny them that final indignity. Someone besides him was going to be hurt tonight. There was no way Charlie was going down on his knees and submit to a shot in the back of his head.
Not knowing how much time he had, though, Charlie assessed his options. He was still wearing his boots and belt, and didn’t have any way of knowing what was still in his pockets. Naturally his weapon and cell phone were gone. The phone itself had no doubt been disabled or trashed. What he needed most, right now, was figuring out how to free his hands.
Charlie tugged to the left, then right, confirming that he’d been anchored to opposite sides of the pickup bed with ropes attached to the screw eyes often used to tie down loads. He was able to sit up a little, but it strained his arms and back, so he lay back. All he could do at the moment was try and loosen the knots around his wrists—if he could reach with just his fingers. He could also listen and guess if and when they slowed down going through a village or town. Maybe he could yell and gather some attention, or pass by a big truck and get spotted by the driver. Unfortunately, that might get an innocent citizen shot. He’d have to decide instantly if the opportunity arose, weighing the risks.
The pickup continued at highway speeds for an estimated half hour or more, then the truck slowed. The occasional passing vehicle told him they were most likely on a two-lane road. If they’d left Albuquerque on the interstate, they would’ve taken an exit before he had regained consciousness. The pickup turned off onto bumpy, uneven ground. The driver geared down and they fishtailed slightly. That suggested sandy ground, which didn’t rule out many locations in New Mexico. He sat up the best he could to avoid smashing his head against metal with every bump.
There was the vague scent of pine, or juniper, which suggested they’d left the highway in the vicinity of the Sandia or Manzano Mountains. That’s where the forests lay, at least considering the time period he estimated. Until he got a glimpse of the horizon again, however, it was only a guess. He could also be in the Jemez Mountains farther to the northwest.
He was bounced around for several minutes and at one point it sounded like they were stuck in the sand or mud. The tires had spun and whipped back and forth, and he’d smelled hot exhaust. Finally, just about when he was wondering how much more he could remain in a slanted, seated position, they came to a halt, though the motor was still running. Charlie lay back down, trying to recharge his muscles and be ready when the time came.
It was very dark, with just a crescent moon high in the sky. Someone untied the tarp and threw it up and off of him. “Get your side, Larry,” he heard Westerfield’s partner order from the driver’s side of the pickup bed.
Westerfield cleared his throat. “Shine your light on Charlie first, Porter. He’s a troublesome bastard and he might have untied a rope. I’m not reaching in there until I know both his hands are secure.”
“No lights, Larry,” Porter ordered. “Even here, there might be some idiot hanging out, jacking deer, who’ll spot us.”
“But they wouldn’t hear the truck? Just do it. That’s what I’m paying you for,” Westerfield snapped.
“Okay, but it’s your sorry ass too. I’m not the one who’s going back to jail for life.”
Charlie closed his eyes once he heard the flashlight click on, not wanting to ruin his night vision.
“Afraid of the dark, Charlie?” Westerfield said.
Charlie coughed.
“Hope you’re not coming down with something,” Ruth’s ex said with a chuckle. “Okay, it’s loose, Porter,” he added, pulling the tarp off the truck bed onto the ground.
Charlie felt a tug on his arms and then the release of pressure. Westerfield had also unfastened the rope that anchored his left arm to that side of the truck bed. It was still too early to make a move. He needed to be out of the pickup first.
Instead of rolling over onto his side, he waited until the second rope was loose. Once that was done, he sat up slowly and looked to his right, where he’d heard Porter’s voice. There was enough light to see that the man was still wearing that camo mask, the kind bow hunters used to hide in blinds and ambush deer. In a warped way, that gave Charlie some hope.
“Stay still, it might keep you from being shot,” Westerfield ordered as he walked slowly around to the tailgate, aiming what looked like Charlie’s Beretta. The masked man remained at the other end of the pickup bed beside the driver’s door, his light on Charlie.
“Now scoot toward me,” Westerfield ordered.
“Okay, Larry,” Charlie said, eager to put some motion to his muscles and ease the cramps and aches.
“That’s Mr. Westerfield to you, Indian.”
“Whatever you say, Pale Face,” Charlie replied.
Porter laughed.
Charlie continued inching along the pickup bed toward the tailgate, pulling himself with his legs, one at a time. He was sweating now, and the ropes around his wrists seemed a little looser, but not enough to slip them off. The needle-sharp pain of restoring circulation required him to focus on the immediate problem—survival.
When Charlie’s feet reached the tailgate, Larry stepped back, taking the flashlight from his companion. Porter came up beside Charlie, aiming a revolver with his gloved right hand. In his left hand, also gloved, was a large machete.
“Okay, Charlie, slide off the tailgate onto your feet,” Larry ordered. “Don’t even think of making a run for it.”
Charlie complied, now certain he knew Larry’s plan. He had to keep him talking, because every second was important. Any lie would help. “So you were responsible for the shootings and threats, Larry. You want my death to look like the work of a terrorist. But why kill Nathan Whitaker? You or your sniper missed me by three feet.”
“That wasn’t us, Mr. Henry. We didn’t arrive in Albuquerque until three days after it started,” Porter protested.
“I should have been so lucky, having some Arab nutjob killing you first. It would have saved me the trouble and I could have gone straight to Central America a happy camper,” Larry replied. “I’m an opportunist, though, and with the money I’d kept stashed in a few places—minus Mr. Porter’s fee—I’ll be able to live the rest of my life elsewhere. For you, however, it’s the end of the road. Or trail of the Great Spirit, I guess.”
“What about the woman you abused for so long? Your son?” Charlie asked, then turned to face the masked man. “Don’t take part in hurting a mother and child for this perv’s gratification, Mr. Porter,” he added.
Westerfield chuckled. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I’d considered punishing her, but this terrorist opportunity provides me with such a gift. There’s no way I can be blamed for taking you out now. It’s a perfect setup. I’ve even printed up a message announcing the latest ISIS victory against the American dogs—you. Copied right off a local news website. It’ll be found on your decapitated body, of course.”
“So you don’t know they’ve already caught the killer. It was actually a woman, not a man,” Charlie responded, hoping to stall a little longer.
“Nice try, Charlie. It’s time now, Porter,” Larry added.
“Step away from the tailgate, Mr. Henry. Slowly,” the masked man ordered, motioning with his revolver barrel.
Charlie took a reluctant step, his eyes on the mask. “Make Larry do his own dirty work, Mr. Porter. He’s a gutless, child-abusing, wife beater who stole millions from people like you and me. Don’t be his patsy.”
“Shoot the bastard, Porter. That’s what I’m paying you for,” Westerfield ordered, aiming the flashlight at Porter.
Porter pulled the hammer back on the revolver. Charlie tensed, watching his trigger finger.
Charlie dove beneath the tailgate. Porter fired, and there was a gasp. Charlie looked up and saw Lawrence’s hand at his bloody face. Lawrence dropped to the sand, thrashed around for a few seconds, and then remained still.
Porter stepped over, grabbed the Beretta off the ground, and turned toward Charlie. “Come on out, soldier, but stay on your knees. I won’t shoot unless you grab for a weapon.”
“What just happened?” Charlie asked.
“When I found out who you really were, I wasn’t about to kill one of my own, not unless I had to. I was paid a shitload of money to get Westerfield here, then take you out. He’s a sick, sorry bastard that needed to die. I’m going to be leaving in a few minutes, so don’t screw around and get yourself hurt. You good with that?”
“I’m good.”
Charlie watched as Porter, which was clearly not his real name, tossed the machete into the bushes, then crouched down beside the body and removed the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Porter took the wallet and cell phone, then stood and faced Charlie as he put the items into his jacket pocket.
“I want you to walk maybe twenty feet over there, Charlie, then set your butt on the ground.” Porter pointed, then waited until Charlie had complied. Charlie found it a bit awkward to sit down with his hands still bound behind his back.
“Here’s your wallet and keys, soldier,” Porter announced, dropping them on the ground. “I’m taking your cash, but I’ll leave the credit cards and ID. By the time you hike out to the road it’ll be close to dawn and I’ll be long gone. A final warning, though. Learn something from this and don’t let yourself get kidnapped again. It was too damned easy.”
As the pickup drove away, lights on, Charlie looked at the license plate codes despite knowing that the tags had probably been stolen. Then he scrambled to his feet and walked over to search in the bushes for the machete. It had landed in a cluster of scrawny-looking sagebrush, nestled on some branches about a foot off the ground, positioned almost horizontally. He balanced on one foot, raising the other to push and lift the long blade out from the bush. It took a few tries, but within seconds the machete was on the ground. He pushed it a little farther away from the brush to give himself room to sit down beside the blade.
A few minutes later enough of the rope had been cut for him to slip off the rest. Charlie’s hands and arms ached, but at least he was free, and he hadn’t cut himself except for a few scrapes and scratches. This time he stood easily, then looked around, gathering his keys and wallet, which, as Porter had said, was only missing the cash.
Lawrence was still dead, and the thought of going through his pockets was disgusting, but maybe there was something that had been missed. He established quickly that Porter had been very thorough. All he found was a pack of Tic Tacs, a small spiral notebook, and a pen.
He kept those, but decided to leave the machete behind. Carrying an eighteen-inch-long blade would send the wrong kind of message to any potential driver willing to stop once he made it back to the highway.
If Gordon or law enforcement was looking for him, and he was certain that was already a fact, there was little chance they’d find him outright. He had to make his location known, and the first step to getting help was reaching the main road.
Charlie took off at a fast jog, following the pickup tire tracks, hoping it was only a few miles, not ten, before he reached a road and any kind of traffic. The route he was taking right now was north, and in the near horizon was the vague outline of a mountain range that he knew was either the Manzanos or the Sandias. Both were west of his location. Once he reached either North or South 10, the highway which paralleled the mountains, he could catch a ride back, or at least have someone make a call.
His head still ached, but that was something aspirin would hopefully cure once he was back to civilization. He regulated his breathing and picked up the pace. Charlie had grown up running long distances on sand and dry earth, and this mountain dirt was hard and rocky in places, easier to traverse as long as he didn’t trip over a boulder or twist his ankle. Sunrise was probably hours away, so he’d have to do the best he could with only stars and the trace of the moon to light the way.
His watch had been taken off to make room for his rope handcuffs, but Charlie had a good sense for time. It only took about an hour-long run for him to see the highway in the distance. Another fifteen minutes and he was on the pavement, now walking and cooling off after the run through the forest. He’d violated one of the Navajo taboos, taking from the dead, but those Tic Tacs had helped keep his mouth moist.
Passing a mile post along the road, he wondered, for the first time, was that the distance from the last community, or the distance to the next? He suspected, from his current position relative to the mountains, that the next community he’d be reaching was Tijeras, on the south end of the mountain pass. There lay the twin highways of I-40 and old Route 66.
Just as he was trying to estimate the remaining distance, he saw approaching headlights as a vehicle came around a curve in the steep side-canyon road. Charlie stepped a few feet out into the oncoming lane and held up his hands, waving. The vehicle was some kind of van or pickup, and as it closed the distance Charlie stepped back, still in the headlights, and beckoned for the person to stop.
The pale green pickup came to a stop about fifty feet away, and Charlie realized it was a forest service truck, complete with emergency running lights atop the cab. His day was looking up.