Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (11 page)

Ramsey picked his way between two dwellings near the mouth of the cave, unhooked his backpack and let it slip to the ground. There was a circular pit with bricks to sit on and he took the rabbit from his belt and set it down beside him.

Adam’s heart was fluttering worse than the night before Christmas. He wanted to thank Ramsey for saving him. Wanted to thank him for bringing him here. There were no words in his muddled head, even when he’d dropped the raincoat on the ground, shrugged off the duffel bag and fell into a deep sleep. He must have slept until the following afternoon because now the light was fading to a deep gray and rain was tapping on rock. 

The last of the evening sun turned the cliffs a rosy red. There were white ribbons in the granite and black sooty stains that curled upwards as if the rock had once been scorched by an ancient fire.

Adam stood at the mouth of the cave, looking over at a stand of trees gripping to a sheer rock. He could hear the whispers of the Mogollon people in the stirring pines and he could see row-upon-row of stone ruins below, carved into the sides of the rock and open to the sky. He couldn’t believe he was finally here.

It must have been Friday afternoon. The sun was already plunging towards the western horizon, barely a small dot though a gap in the clouds. As he stood there, a thought came over him. Ramsey wasn’t about to kill him, because if he was he would have done it by now. Wouldn’t have saved him from the rogue ranger, wouldn’t have brought him here to the caves. 

Ramsey said something, voice hollow and distant. Pointed to one side of the cave mouth which curved around a little, forming a short lookout ledge. “You can see the river and the pass from here.”

Adam wasn’t looking at the river or the pass. “These houses… they’re old aren’t they?”

“They quarried the stone, used mud and brought timber from the forest. You can see beam holes in the rock, volcanic tuft I think it is.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Adam flapped his fingers in an upturned hand.

Ramsey grinned and took out his compass. “Remembered my promise, didn’t you? Well, here it is.”

Adam caught it in both hands, a military compass, khaki colored. The best he’d ever seen.

Ramsey pulled down his jeans. “I need to clean the wound.” Blood trickled from a hole in his thigh and he poured water on it. It didn’t make Adam sick like he thought it would, like the time when a scout leader got a rusty old nail in his foot. Looked like raw meat when he took that shoe off.

“First aid kit,” Ramsey said, thumb pointing at the backpack. “Hand me the peroxide and keep the flashlight on it.”

Adam found a white box and in it was a sixteen ounce bottle of peroxide and a hooked needle and thread. He watched Ramsey unscrew the lid with his teeth and let a few drops fall on his thigh. He sutured that wound like he’d done it a thousand times and then rummaged around for a tube of antiseptic cream and a bandage. He muttered a cuss word as he pulled his jeans back on.

“What does that word mean?” Adam asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Ramsey said. And then, “I’m sorry.”

Better hope you’re sorry, Adam thought. It sounded like a bad one and if he didn’t like it then God certainly wouldn’t.

“Know how to skin a rabbit?” Ramsey unsheathed the hunting knife and held it out hilt first.

Adam nodded. He wasn’t sure he remembered all the steps but he wanted to give it a go. He stared at the tang of the blade and saw his face in the reflection. A small face, gray with dirt.

“We’ll eat the venison first. Nice bit of backstrap,” Ramsey said, unrolling the raincoat. He pocketed what money was in it and separated two portions of the cooked meat on the surface of a nearby brick. “Then we’ll build a fire.”

“Fires aren’t allowed,” Adam said. He turned off the flashlight and bit into his meat.

“A man’s got to keep warm and so has a boy. It’s darker than a man’s armpit in here.”

“I can see.”

“Bet you couldn’t thread a needle without a flashlight.” Ramsey paused for a second or two. “I take that back. You probably could.”

Adam tore at that venison in a few bites. It wasn’t much. Just a few slices about half an inch thick and nicely browned. It got him thinking about that old man in the woods, eyes wide and pasty like he was already dead.

“Did you see any other rogue rangers back there?” Adam asked.

“Saw a dog. Heard it growling too.”

“Coyote?”

“Maybe.” Ramsey took the flashlight and trained it on the rabbit. “Slice a ring above the foot joint. Whatever you do, don’t cut the flesh.”

Adam took the rabbit, sliced a ring just where Ramsey pointed. He made another incision towards the backside cutting through the tail bone before peeling the hide off easy as a banana. He held it up for Ramsey to see and all he got was a tight nod.

He laid the rabbit on a rock and reached into the pit, letting the ash sift through his fingers. “Is this old?”

“The ash? Nah, someone’s been here before us.” Ramsey beckoned for the knife, wiped it on his jeans and then played it between his fingers. “There may be more of them. And if there are, they’ll have heard the shot. Better get that rabbit cooked. We need kindling.” Ramsey grabbed his axe and peered through the mouth of the cave at a lead-gray cloud as he zipped up his jacket. “I’ll bring up the ladders when I’m done. Stay here. And don’t follow me.”

He was already bolting down that ladder like a wraith, gun in his belt. How he did it with a deep gash in his thigh, Adam would never know. But the man was fast, he’d give him that. He would be off for a while cutting tree branches and gathering twigs, and since there was nothing dry on the forest floor it was likely he’d be gone for some time.

When the wind sighed through the empty houses, Adam could almost hear the chatter of voices and the shrill laughter of children. He sensed the spirits of another time, heard what they heard and saw what they saw. When it was silent he was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss.

It was a national monument, visitors center not far away and a warden to watch over the ruins. Unless there was a thunderstorm alert, there would be visitors along tomorrow. Or so he hoped.

He reached for the metal pot and brushed it against the ash in the fire pit to flatten out the surface. There was a musky scent in the air as the rain pattered against the rock and he tensed suddenly and listened to the rhythm. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could hear a keening sound where a thousand eyes watched him from the slopes, reducing him to the jumpy reactions of a child―and he didn’t like it.

Eager to see what it was, he made his way towards the ledge and squinted up at a dark sky where swollen clouds were twined with gray. He crept towards the ladder and looked down. There was no sign of Ramsey, not even in the long grass or behind the boulders at the base of the cliff.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck began to stir and he was rattled by the sense that something moved behind a wet veil of rain. At first, he backed away from that ledge and studied the wood and the trees beyond from a shadowy corner of the cave.

He could just make out the path that had led them to the canyon and the glint of sodden rock. It must be rogue rangers with pale faces and red beards, searching for boys to skin and roast over a fire. There was nowhere to hide in the cave and they would soon find him cowering behind a rock. Adam’s heart continued to race at the thought of finding Ramsey. To warn him.

One . . . two . . . three
.

His head was pounding as he turned around on that ledge and he found his feet on the rungs without recalling how they got there.

Now!

He inched down a little further this time, feet wet and slipping against the rungs. The sand and pebbles were soft underfoot from the rain and he scrabbled against a boulder, falling backwards on his butt. It hurt like hell, but he had to get up.

To his left and about a mile away was the river, the only escape from the horseshoe of cliffs. He had no idea of its name or even if it had one. Near the narrow opening there were boulders big enough to hide behind and if he was quick he could track out into the open without being seen.

He listened to the wind as it shrieked through the canyon knowing the very sound would mask his footsteps. Edging forward, there was nothing but stalks of grass and sandy pathways between the trees and he could smell the faint trace of sweat. 

He wanted to conjure Tarahuma with his mighty spear, war cries rising out of the ancient stones. He was in the thunder and in the rain, he was in the
oshach
and the
tahwach
, the sun and the moon. He was in the thundering skies… everywhere and nowhere in the darkening land.

The rains came harder now, teaming down at a slant, large as pellets and hurting too. His hair was slick against his face and he was already soaked to the skin. He heard snapping twigs, heard pounding like someone was coming. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see much beyond the gray, except a shape shifting about like an uncertain dream, coming closer, faster.

“What the heck!” Ramsey shouted, reaching through a curtain of hail. His coat was wrapped around the kindling, one arm locked around that coat. “Get up there! Before the lightning comes.”

They were back in the cave when the sky lit up, bright like a gash across the horizon. First white and then blue and then a ripple of thunder overhead. Adam knew it wouldn’t last. Rain never did in New Mexico.

Ramsey was wet through and mad, and shouting over the pelting rain. He dropped the kindling beside the fire pit, a loud clack against stone. It made Adam flinch, teeth clattering in his mouth.

“You think you could just run away?”

“I wasn’t―”

“Probably should have. Save me all this running around! So where’s your God now? See, when you screw up your eyes and take a good look, he’s nowhere to be found. Trust me, I’ve already tried.”

“I didn’t―

“When I was your age, I thought I could conquer the world. But the world conquered me. That’s how it is, son. Can’t be too smart. Can’t be too sure. It takes courage to be sure when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun. If there are rangers out there, they’ll smoke you in their boots.”

“I wasn’t running away!”

Ramsey’s forehead puckered for a moment, head aslant, every muscle taut. He seemed to be in a trance, unable to shake off what Adam had just said.  

“I was trying to warn you,” Adam said. “There’s someone out there. In the trees.”

“You’ve got a wild imagination. There’s no one out there… only me.”

Adam could smell mud and sweat on Ramsey’s skin. He was a great bulk of a man who probably couldn’t move quite as fast as a twelve-year-old boy.

“I’m telling you. I saw something,” Adam said. “Over there.”

Ramsey went dead quiet then, clutched at his chest again. It was his breathing Adam could hear, short sharp bursts of it. Maybe he was having second thoughts. Maybe he was just plain scared.

It was two days later when they got the call. Officer Running Hawk had found tracks out by West Fork Gila River―one set larger than the other―and both had petered out at the water’s edge. It was good news and another notch on Hackett’s command.

They had also found a body, throat slashed and a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. The coroner took its time to get to Albuquerque. Six long hours, Temeke estimated, as he looked at his wrist watch.

If there was anything he hated more it was the office of the medical investigator. Aluminum everywhere and the unforgettable reek of decaying flesh and formaldehyde. It was lucky the extractor fan was working overtime.

Dr. Vasillion bent over an autopsy table, hand grasping a set of tweezers. He seemed to be mining something from inside the nose of the dead man whose head was blackened and blistered by fire. There were only a few strands of red hair on his chin and some on his chest.

“Morning doc,” Temeke said, giving a terse nod to the assistant, a plucky girl in a white coat wearing a roar of fruity perfume. She was tapping furiously on a laptop, fingernails a grisly shade of black.

“Morning Temeke,” Dr. Vasillion said, looking up suddenly and warming Malin with a come-hither smile. “Nice to see you again, Malin.”

“And you, Dr. Vasillion,” Malin said.

“Call me Joe.”

“Joe,” she said, clearly trying on the name for size. She began biting her bottom lip, eyes grazing over the tiled floor.

Blimey
, Temeke thought. He never knew Malin was into watery blue eyes and tightly cinched aprons. The man had a certain sophisticated charm in that jaunty smile. He also had a soon-to-be ex-wife and a mistress on the boil.

“We’ve just had breakfast,” Temeke confirmed. All he got was two tired eyes and a droopy smile. “Eggs Benedict wasn’t it Marl?’

“It was a sausage patty and it was gross.”

“Well you won’t mind losing it then,” Temeke said, giving a tight smile. She already looked grayer than the aluminum sink she was leaning against. “And talking of losing things, I got your invitation, doc, only I lost it again under a pile of other rubbish you keep sending me. Remind me what it said.”

Vasillion flashed a look at Malin and then down again at the table. “It said OMI will only see police officers and detectives with an appointment.”

“We heard you got something new in stock and you know what they say, the early bird catches.”

“Two pilots and this one,” Vasillion said, hand stroking that one strand of red hair with a latex covered finger. It was an oddly affectionate gesture.

“Pour old sod,” Temeke muttered. “He’ll never see his state pension.”

Vasillion nodded at his assistant and began his examination. “Physical markings, small tattoo on the inside of the right wrist. Eternity symbol by the look of it. Thumb missing on his right hand, a prior injury,” he said, lifting the skin slightly near the buttock, “judging by skin grafts on the upper right thigh and back.”

“According to Officer Running Hawk’s report,” Temeke interrupted, “he reckoned the old man got into an altercation with another hunter over a kill. He was shot only a few feet from his camp. There were blood stains on a tree, that kind of thing, and they found a knife, a Buck 110. Looks like he used it too. He was then dragged back to the fire and that’s where his neck was slashed. Then Ginger was left face down to burn. What I want to know is how long he’d been dead?”

Vasillion shook his head. “Facedown means the killer wanted his face obliterated. Extreme hatred. As for an altercation, doesn’t sound like hunter etiquette to me. This wound isn’t consistent with a folding knife.”

“That’s not all they carry,” muttered Temeke.

“The field examiners found a bolt action rifle in a lean-to. 5-round magazine.” Vasillion looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “P14, I think he said.”

“Enfield?” Temeke asked, belly a churn of knots. Nobody had told him that crucial piece of news.

The doctor nodded. “I’d say he died anywhere between two and three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon.”

He continued to prod and poke with painstaking scrutiny, nose almost touching the dead man’s neck. “Second and third degree burns to left side of the face, neck and chest. Conjunctival hemorrhaging of the left eye.” He then eased the mouth open, spatula clicking on the teeth. “Age sixty-five to seventy-five. Physical condition‒”

“Dead?” Temeke offered, hoping the doc would get to the headlines and leave the boring bits for later.

“Fit. Apparent cause of death, homicide, gunshot wound to the left shoulder, one deep cut versus tear to the left front side of the neck, exposing cervical spine.”

Malin stood on tiptoe and kept her distance. “You said one deep cut, right?”

“Correct,” Vasillion muttered more to himself than to her. “Definitely a fixed blade survival knife. Serrated edge. Not the Buck 110. But that did have blood on it. Different type.”

“Do we have a name?” Temeke assumed the blood came from the assailant.

“I’ve got a rush on it.”

“He must have been strong,” Malin said. “Not saying a hunter isn’t strong. They’d have to be. But this is precise, almost meticulous.”

“Could have been a doctor,” Temeke muttered, seeing Vasillion’s eyebrows shoot up.

He wondered if he should go out for smoke, but gave his watch a pointed stare instead. He hoped they could get out before the old boy was gutted down the middle with a Striker Saw and the assistant began labeling jars of offal. He expected to ruin a perfectly good pair of underpants when he smelled the stench of burning bone.

“What’s this, doc?” Temeke said, peering at a length of material lined in a silky twill and sealed in a bag on the counter.

“It’s part of a double-breasted trench coat, Melton-style I think. The rest of it was recovered from the site, bloodstained rope in the pockets and a few hair samples. Forensics better take a look at it,” Vasillion said, gazing down Ginger’s throat. “Particles of soot in the trachea―”

“A heavy smoker then?”

“… consistent with smoke inhalation associated with the campfire. No further significant points.”

Temeke huffed out a lungful of air and looked at the pathetic remains. He hoped the dead man wouldn’t wind up in the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. He hoped they’d get a name.

“Since we don’t have antemortem data it could take a few days.”

“Do you think he lived out there” Malin murmured, “in the woods?”

“Judging by the dirt under his fingernails, hair, teeth, I would say he did.”

Temeke felt an icy cold wind across the room, a shudder that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Someone must have opened a cold locker. He continued to stare at the scrub sinks and tables, wondering if the dead looked down from the ceiling and felt sad at what they saw. Why was it the place always made him feel so uneasy?

One of the ward doors was barged open by a stretcher and wheeled in by an Asian orderly. His eyes seemed to smile behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses and he nodded to Malin. As far as Temeke could make out, these were the remains of Danny Michael, recognizable only by the label tied to a toe.

Temeke flinched slightly, felt the prickle of tears. He hated death, but the terror of it was greater. Danny had left behind a wife and two small children. Bloody fantastic.

“Given that this is a homicide,” Dr. Vasillion said, voice cutting through Temeke’s thoughts, “and in the same area of woods, he could be related to your case.”

Temeke watched that spatula as it hung between two fingers, saw the doctor’s reflection in one side of the aluminum table.

“He could even have been shot in self-defense,” Malin said.

Vasillion barely nodded and patted the upper right arm. “He’s fit. When we get to the gross examination I suspect rabbits and squirrels in the way of stomach contents.”

“We’ll leave before you do,” Temeke said, watching the doc toss his instrument in a steel pan and pick up a scalpel. “What are we looking for. Got any ideas, doc?”

Vasillion played the scalpel between his fingers, eyes squinting at Temeke. “The shot to the shoulder was a warning. Maybe our John Doe overstepped the line, maybe he threatened his killer. It’s the knife wound to the neck that fascinates me. There’s a faint possibility, and I hope its
faint,
that the killer might be ex-police or military. Some fail, some never fit in. Some join the armed forces to vent a rage against the foulest of humanity. And that cut, as Malin pointed out, is very precise. Only a high street butcher could have come close.”