An orange horizon contrasted with dark outlines of palm trees and utility poles as Jason and Alfredo sat in the unlit living room of Mirabel’s house. They had waited through the afternoon for the tattooed man to return, peering through drawn shades at the front and back of the home.
Finally Alfredo turned on the front porch light and left lights on in a bedroom and above the kitchen sink. He paced lightly, like a cat.
Jason stared at the pistols lined up on the coffee table: a Beretta M9 and an ugly-looking black Ruger.
“If he shows up again, then what?” Jason crossed and uncrossed his legs, unable to sit still.
“When he knocks, I ask him what he wants. The idea is to get him inside and overpower him.” Alfredo remained standing and gestured toward the nylon rope, duct tape and pack of zip ties near the front door. “We tie him up and get him to talk. If he won’t cooperate, I call my buddies and see what they can get out of him.”
“It’s not illegal to knock on a door. What if we can’t prove he’s here to take me out?” Jason asked.
“This guy will be armed, and chances are he’ll have priors or be wanted for something. If the police fingerprint him they’ll know that soon enough.” Alfredo’s gaze darted to the door. “I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up.”
“Talking about cops scares me. I think there are police friendly to Los Brutos. That’s why Sonny Para seems untouchable. If the Albuquerque PD hears about me, it’s a matter of time before Para finds out. Then he’ll come after me for sure.”
“Suppose Para sent him. How did they locate you?” Alfredo asked.
“You can go online and find people’s current and past addresses, their relatives, all kinds of background. I’m an only child and my grandparents have passed. Para guessed I’d run to my relations in LA, meaning my aunt.” Jason’s laugh was bitter. “I have cousins in Houston, but he bet on LA.”
“I see.” Alfredo was thinking. “So we have a problem.”
The front gate creaked. Footsteps stopped outside the front door.
Jason’s pulse revved and he could barely breathe.
Ruger in hand, Alfredo tiptoed to the door, directing Jason to a spot out of view for someone entering.
The older man cracked open the door and peered out. “Yes?”
Suddenly Alfredo was thrust backwards as the intruder burst inside. The door banged into Jason, whose vision constricted to a .357 Magnum aimed at Alfredo. The gaping barrel looked like the black maw of eternity. Jason gripped the Beretta with both hands and fired.
Alfredo parried to the side as the Magnum went off.
The intruder turned his head slightly and faltered, blood blossoming at chest level. His hand wavered as he turned the gun toward Jason, who fired again.
The gunman dropped like a sack of concrete and let go of the heavy Magnum, which bounced against the floor and cracked a square of ceramic tile. Tattoo man sprawled face down.
Jason was pale as chalk, hands trembling. He had never shot anyone before. The room swam as he stared at blood flowing from bullet holes on the side of the man’s neck and torso.
Alfredo grunted as he pulled the body from the entry way and slammed the front door shut. He knelt and touched the side of the man’s neck, felt the underside of a wrist.
“Dead.” The older man looked stunned, his tough demeanor gone. He located a wallet and key ring in the dead man’s pockets. “Let’s see who he is.”
The driver’s license photo showed the same face with a military-like buzz cut, flinty eyes challenging the camera. “Manny Soto. 46233 Montgomery Avenue, Apt. 34, Albuquerque.”
“Para sent him after me.” Jason put down his gun and swiped wet palms on his jeans. He pointed at tattooed words ringing the man’s neck. Los Brutos. “I’m done for.
“I’ve never seem this guy before. He looks white, but he must have Latin blood with a name like that.”
Alfredo rolled the man over and yanked up his t shirt, exposing a collage of tattoos: knives, guns, muscle cars and naked women.
Jason pointed at lettering on the man’s chest. “El Tigre. That’s what Sonny Para calls himself.”
“This one spent half his life in a tattoo parlor.” Alfredo’s knees creaked as he stood up. “So what now? Call the police and claim self-defense? That’s not a good idea, based on what you told me.”
Jason folded his arms and shivered. “What if someone heard the shots? We have to get rid of the body.”
***
Cait and Jack said goodbye to Chris before he headed off to meet with his supervisors and start his new position.
“How are you feeling today?” Cait turned to Jack. “What would you think about a hike?” She gestured toward the Rincon Mountains overlooking the park.
“Why not? I need to get my mind off things. Maybe I can borrow Chris’ hiking pole to make sure I’m steady on my feet. This heavy cast throws me off some.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Cait stuffed two daypacks with water bottles, first aid kits, snacks, sunscreen, and trail maps of Saguaro National Park.
They drove to the park kiosk, paid an entrance fee and continued onto the Cactus Forest Loop. The narrow road wound up and down desert washes and hills thick with palo verde, mesquite, creosote, and jojoba, and studded with tall, ancient specimens of the park’s namesake cactus.
“They found that ranger’s body here.” Cait parked by the Javelina Rocks Overlook picnic area.
Jack slid his gun in a shoulder holster. “That was a sad story.”
They set off for the Tanque Verde Ridge Trail, a steady climb zigzagging along a crushed granite path past a bewildering variety of cactus. Cait consulted a pocket guide and named off purple staghorn cholla, pincushion, various types of prickly pear, ocotillo, and fishhook barrel, along with the ever-present saguaro.
They skirted large sections of exposed bedrock and rugged stone formations, granite over a billion years old that formed the backbone of the ridge.
“Good thing we got an early start,” Jack said. “Top of the ridge is a long hike, and we have to give ourselves time to get back before dark. Sunset is before five.”
As they gained elevation, saguaros became less frequent. A lone giant sentinel welcomed them, a rare cristate saguaro, capped with an unusual candelabra-shaped growth.
Cait plopped down on a rock and sipped from her water bottle. “The plants are different up here,” she said, looking around at the dips and swells of the ridge. “Look at all the grasses. Still a lot of ocotillo and those little calf-stabber plants.”
“Shin Dagger agave. Check out the view. Those toothy-looking mountains to the north must be the Catalinas.” He sucked in a deep breath. “It feels good to just walk and not think about things I can’t control.”
“That was the idea,” Cait said.
The path wound between truck-sized boulders, past hillsides of wild grasses, and thickets of manzanita and alligator juniper with scaly, misshapen trunks. They continued up the ridge spine, passing through fantastical columns and jumbles of rock. Finally they reached Box Canyon, forested Juniper Basin and a small campground.
The trail climbed back up Tanque Verde Ridge for a few more miles before Cait could just make out a summit post on the peak. “We’ve come almost nine miles. I’m ready to turn back.” She pointed at a wooden trail marker.
Jack sat on a boulder, doffed his hat and wiped his forehead. “Same here. Good thing it’s mostly downhill on the way back.”
They sat side by side, nibbling sandwiches and looking out over a broad swath of desert below that extended for miles to the foothills of the Catalinas.
“What goes up must come down.” Cait got up and hoisted her pack. “Almost wish we didn’t have to go back. Hiking sure transports you to a different world. All you think about is what’s around you, getting up the hill, trying not to trip and land on your ass. Hey, little guy.” A tiny canyon wren landed on a nearby manzanita shrub, pausing a minute before flittering away.
Jack agreed. “Trouble seems a zillion miles away.”
They headed back down, stopping occasionally to take in the view. As they neared the bottom of the ridge, Cait pointed. A hiker headed back to the lot where they had parked. “What’s with all those boxes attached to his backpack? Maybe he’s collecting rock or cactus samples.”
“Wouldn’t that be illegal in a national park?” Jack said. “Unless he’s doing permitted research.”
As they headed for the Jeep, Cait watched the hiker open the rear of an SUV and pull off his pack. He examined one of the containers, about the size of a shoe box. Cait counted five other plastic boxes with holes on the lids. As soon as he noticed them, the man slipped his pack and the boxes inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut.
“Hi.” Cait nodded at the man, who gave her a hard look. Her alarm bells clanged at his unfriendly reaction. Then she saw a holstered gun partly visible under his unzipped jacket.
She thought of the ranger who died by Javelina Overlook.
Jack’s antennae were up also. He pulled Cait behind the bulk of the jeep as the man wheeled around, gun in hand.