Dark Reservations (31 page)

“It's the rez,” Bluehorse said. “People do strange stuff here.”

“Yeah, but his voice didn't sound native.”

“What do you want to do?”

Joe had thought about having Stretch and Sadi come out to provide backup for the meet, but the incident at Mickey's with Sadi was still too raw. He didn't want her or Stretch out here judging how he was running this case. And besides, meeting sources on the rez was pretty common, even with those who wanted to stay anonymous and didn't trust cops. Neighbors often ratted on one another and were afraid to be found out. Then why did this meet bother him? Because of the voice. It had seemed disguised, yet he'd thought he'd recognized it. When—

“What do you want to do, Joe?” Bluehorse asked, this time his tone more insistent.

Joe didn't know.

O
CTOBER
7

T
HURSDAY
, 3:48
P.M.

J
ONES
R
ANCH
R
OAD
, C
HI
C
HIL
T
AH
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), N
EW
M
EXICO

Books was prone on the ground, not moving, when the sound of tires on gravel came from the east. He waited.

Minutes passed.

No vehicle.

He crawled forward, careful not to disturb the brush around him. He saw the vehicle, Joe Evers's Tahoe, but he couldn't make out the occupants. He edged forward another foot and peered through his rifle's scope. The reflection of sun and sky on windshield made it impossible to see inside. Was Evers alone? Perhaps he'd brought the professor with him. If so, Books could be tossing back Pacíficos in La Libertad by Monday, maybe scouting café sites by Tuesday.

It felt good to have a plan. A goal. The only time Books had ever truly felt good about life was a year after he came out of juvie. He'd gotten a job at a coffee shop, a quaint little place in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, run by an old Italian named Cosimo. The old man had treated him well, given him respect even before Books had earned it. Trusted him. Let him open and close the place, even tally the register. Books stayed on for more than a year, even dated a local girl, a transcriptionist at the courthouse, Clair. Cosimo called her “Clairabelle.” Things were good.

And then the landlord refused to renew the old man's lease; Cosimo had been there thirty years.

Books paid a visit to the landlord, hoping to somehow change his mind. But the daughter answered the door. Turned out the landlord was eighty-three, bedridden, and senile. The daughter ran things. So Books tried to talk to her, tried to get her to see reason, explaining that the café was Cosimo's whole life. But all she kept saying was that he had to leave or she'd call the cops. She went for the phone. He stopped her. That's when she told him about unloading her father's properties. She had a buyer for the café, but it needed to be vacant. She explained all this while begging him not to hurt her. He hadn't gone there to hurt anyone. The next day, he quit, telling Cosimo simply that it was time he moved on. Cosimo died later that same year, heart attack. The police never found the woman's body. And no one ever questioned Books about her.

He liked the name Rick's Café, but maybe he would call it Cosimo's. That sounded nice. And he would offer Italian food.

Lying there on the red clay with the odor of sage strong, too strong, all around him, he promised himself this was his last gig. He wasn't going to die in prison, take a shiv in the face while he sat on the shitter. He wanted to go out like the old man, in the kitchen, brewing coffee and stuffing cannoli. Peaceful. Maybe even find a lady along the way. Another Clairabelle.

It was 4:02 and he couldn't see into the bastard's vehicle. The son of a bitch was screwing things up. Now Books would have to move to get a clean shot.

O
CTOBER
7

T
HURSDAY
, 4:08
P.M.

J
ONES
R
ANCH
R
OAD
, C
HI
C
HIL
T
AH
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), N
EW
M
EXICO

“There he is,” Bluehorse said.

At first, Joe saw only a scraggly forest. Then he caught movement. A man walking along the tree line, appearing from behind one juniper, then just as quickly disappearing behind the next. He wore a brown jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses. Bluehorse opened his door.

Joe didn't like it. “Hold on. Let's—”

Bluehorse wasn't listening. “Eddie!” He stood by his open door.

Joe got out and moved behind the engine compartment.

The man, perhaps twenty yards from the road, knelt.

Joe drew his weapon.

The man brought up a rifle.

“Gun!” Joe fired his Glock: one, two, three rounds.

In his periphery, he saw Bluehorse fall against the rear passenger door. Joe's ears rang from the Glock's loud reports. He called out to his partner.

No answer.

Bluehorse had on his vest, Joe repeated to himself.

The man in the tree line moved to his left, behind a thick oak. The rifle's barrel peeked around the tree. It barked.

Air rushed past Joe's head. He returned three rounds.

Another rifle shot.

The round punched into the engine compartment.

He called again to Bluehorse.

No answer. Gurgling sounds.

Joe dropped to the hard-packed clay and peered beneath the truck.

Bluehorse lay on his back on the ground. Blood stained the left side of his neck and shoulder. He stared straight up, struggling to breathe, blood leaking from his mouth.

“Hold on, buddy,” Joe said.

He stood up. A rifle round smashed into the windshield to his right.

Joe emptied his magazine, shooting into the tree line, spacing the rounds in and around the oak. No targeting. Keeping the shooter's head down so Joe could acquire better firepower. At this distance, a rifle had the advantage. When his Glock locked back, Joe hunkered down, dropped the mag, and reloaded with the extra on his hip. As he did this, he moved around the driver's door, staying low.

The front passenger tire exploded; the Tahoe lurched.

Joe stood and put another three shots over the windshield. Again no target. The shooter wasn't exposing himself. Joe hit the rifle rack's release button, reached up, and pulled the M4 from its cradle above the front seat.

Another rifle round came through the passenger window and smashed into the seat belt fixture on the driver's side. He felt sharp, stabbing pain in his right cheek. He didn't have time to worry about it. He charged the M4 and stood, delivering a volley of rounds: five, ten, fifteen. Jolts of pain ran down the side of his face.

A round sailed through the windshield, creasing the dashboard above Joe's head as he reached inside and grabbed the handset of the car radio. “Officer down! Officer down!” He yelled their location, his voice high and breaking.

A round slammed into the outside corner of the driver's seat, to the right of his head. The dispatcher was talking, but Joe wasn't listening. He couldn't stay where he was; it offered too little protection. He calculated the location of the shooter from the trajectory of the last round. The man was moving to his left, Joe's right. He grabbed three M4 magazines from the pocket of the driver's door. Then he stood and delivered the M4's remaining rounds as he moved back behind the engine block and front tire.

When the M4's bolt locked back, Joe dropped the mag and rammed another home. His heart raced, the sound hammering in his ears. Blood dripped from his cheek onto the stock of the rifle. He made a mental inventory of his ammunition. Two M4 mags, plus the one he'd loaded. Ninety rounds. Plus twelve left in the pistol. All this quick, mechanical. Two decades of rote training on the firing range.

The radio was chattering now. Officers en route. Voices and sirens blared through the radio speakers. The dispatcher cleared the channel for Joe.

“Help's on the way, buddy,” he called to Bluehorse, shouting to be heard over the radio. Another shot thudded into the front fender. He needed to move. If not, the shooter would gain more of an advantage. Worse yet, he might put another round into Bluehorse.

Thoughts crowded Joe's mind. He pushed back the fear. Time pressed down on him. Adrenaline raced through his limbs. He shook. Fight-or-flight tremors. Anticipation. Readiness. The shooter knew exactly where Joe was. Joe had only a vague idea where the shooter was.

Time to change that.

He held his hand out and willed the tremors to stop. He took a deep breath, then rose to his feet. He put five rounds in the shooter's direction directly across from the front passenger door. Still firing, he ran into the tree line, to the left of where he thought the shooter waited. He dropped to the ground behind a juniper tree and fired several more rounds. Released the mag. Loaded a fresh one. Put the now-partial mag in his right pocket.

He studied his target area. A bush shook. He delivered three rounds.

A second later, the man stood and ran deeper into the woods. Joe fired. He got up, moved forward at a trot, the M4 up, locked into his shoulder. Ready.

He glimpsed the brown jacket and dispatched another two rounds. He kept moving forward.

Another glimpse. Another two rounds. Then two more.

The man found cover behind a tree. Fired back.

Pain ripped into Joe's left bicep. He ignored it, firing off a volley. The M4 locked back. He took a knee, changed mags, quick and fluid despite the burning in his left arm. He slammed the charging handle forward, rose to his feet, and advanced, putting multiple rounds down range.

The man was running now, disappearing into the woods.

Sirens in the distance. Joe pressed forward.

He heard a small engine start up ahead and to his left. He ran in that direction.

A dirt bike with the man atop it tore across the woods forty yards in front of him. Joe took aim. The bike was moving fast. Too fast. One, two, three. He fired off four rounds before the bike and driver vanished.

When the sound of the engine grew too distant to hear, Joe ran back to the road, back to Bluehorse.

O
CTOBER
7

T
HURSDAY
, 7:51
P.M.

O
THMANN
E
STATE
, S
ANTA
F
E
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Mr. O. was pacing when Books walked into the study. Neither spoke. Books waited. The throb in his right arm was beginning to subside, the pain still intense. He was popping ibuprofen every half hour. It wasn't helping. The drive back to Santa Fe had been excruciating. When Mr. O. finally looked at him, saw the blood, he freaked.

After Books told his story, Mr. O. yelled and carried on. He snorted three lines while Books waited, holding bath towels under his arm so the blood wouldn't drip on Mr. O.'s precious carpet. The coke seemed to have the opposite of its usual effect on his boss. It calmed him.

“Okay. Okay. We need to think. Let's be cool. Okay.” He sat down behind his desk. “Evers is probably alive, right?”

“I think so.”

“You think so. You fucked this whole thing up, and you
think
so?”

“I'll fix it,” Books said.

“You better.”

Books had planned to come back, tell his boss the good news, and then quit. He would have been in his room that very minute, packing instead of standing here, soaking up blood with his boss's designer bath towels. But the situation had changed. He would take care of it, of course. He'd given his word. And, on top of that, he owed Evers.

“I need antibiotics for my arm,” he said. “I can't go to the hospital.”

“Jesus Christ, you're worried about your fucking arm. Did he see you?”

Books shook his head.

Mr. O. got him antibiotics and Percocet that night. Not out of personal concern, Books was sure. His boss wanted him healthy enough to fix the problem.

Back in his room, Books locked his door, set his gun on the nightstand, and tried to relax. He cleaned the wound with peroxide and then packed it with gauze. Later, when his hand steadied, he stitched his arm the best he could, having learned how during his time in Philly. He'd been lucky. No arteries severed, no broken bones. He drifted off into restless sleep and dreamed of Ecuador, a little coastal town called La Libertad, and of his café. Then an El Niño hit the shore and swept it out to sea. He tried to swim out to get it all back.

He woke drenched in sweat, his arm throbbing.

O
CTOBER
8

F
RIDAY
, 9:13
A.M.

G
ALLUP
I
NDIAN
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER
, G
ALLUP
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Joe opened his eyes. A low, repetitive beep emanated from somewhere behind him. Tubes connected him to intravenous bags. The room smelled of disinfectant and urine. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching tiny dust motes floating in the air, giving them an iridescent glow.

The events at Jones Ranch Road flooded his mind, though the images were jumbled. Pieces really. Eventually, they organized themselves into one coherent memory. After chasing the shooter, he'd raced back to the Tahoe, sat next to Bluehorse, and held a hand on his bleeding neck wound. He told him everything would be okay. Bluehorse never spoke, only stared into Joe's eyes. He didn't know if his friend saw anything, but he spoke to him just the same. He tried to say the right thing, just as he had tried to say the right thing to Christine in his last minutes with her, never wanting the time to end, no matter how painful. He went through that again, sitting there by the Tahoe, watching his friend's life seep through his fingers.