Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (17 page)

Ramsey was looking real bad now. His skin was gray and his eyes were wide and staring and he could hardly move. Kept mumbling about painkillers, about the village, about the stores. Kept pointing at the front door.

“You have to go,” he said, slipping off his watch and handing it to Adam.

Adam was too afraid to go. He knew the rangers weren’t far away. The howling in the night woke them up three times and Ramsey threatened to shoot the dog with all he had. He said it was a black Tervuren, whatever that was. Seen it out of the window scurrying away towards the woodshed, said it was big and dangerous.

Ramsey found cans of food in the hut, found spoons, toothbrushes, oil, can openers and tin plates. He’d found a black and yellow can of gun solvent and a cleaning rod, at least that’s what he said they were. 

Adam knew what Ramsey wanted. He just didn’t think he could do it. Staying in the house wouldn’t help either of them so there was only one thing for it. He found the key on a hook under the kitchen sink and he found the duffel. Some of the money was scattered about and some was wadded and sealed. Twenties, fifties, looked like a lot to him. He stuffed a few notes in the pocket of Ramsey’s coat and zipped it up to his chin.

It was all his fault anyway. Ramsey wouldn’t have got sick if he hadn’t pounded that leg and made it bleed again. His mom said hitting came from hatred and hatred was an ugly thing. If you have a problem with someone, she said, look for whatever is true, good and praiseworthy. Ramsey was good as good goes. As for the true and praiseworthy, Adam wasn’t quite sure about that.

“You’ve got a good compass now. So head west. And don’t talk to anyone,” Ramsey said, barely lifting his head.

“How am I supposed to get you stuff if I can’t talk to anyone?”

“You know what I mean.” There was a rattle in his throat that sounded bad, like it was thick with spit. “Make sure you’re not being followed.”

Adam frowned and opened the door. “I won’t be long.”

Ramsey just lay there shivering in that sudden blast of cold air, raising a hand towards the door. He’d made a nest in a pile of blankets in front of the wood stove, hat pulled over his eyes and mouth opened a slit to breathe. Looked like a homeless person, looked like he wouldn’t last much longer unless Adam hurried back.

Adam slipped outside and shut the door. Looked up at the eaves and saw an old bird’s nest wedged into the siding. There were gray and white droppings splattered down the wall and the smell of mold in the wood. Fresh air stabbed his lungs and made his eyes water, and he didn’t know which way to go.

The wood shed was to his left now, kindling barely covered by a rotting canvas. He took out the compass and followed the needle west between the trees to a furrowed field. He’d have to be quick in case the rangers spotted him.

He missed Ramsey to be honest, missed his cheery tone and the way he did things. He could look after himself in the desert, find food and water where nobody else could. He’d saved Adam’s life, hadn’t he? Now it was his turn to save Ramsey’s.

Markers, watch for markers.

The leaves were soft underfoot from the recent rains and there was a haze between the trees. It was the shifting winds that spooked him and the occasional flutter of a bird. He thought he heard someone calling his name. He thought he heard drums in his head.

It was several hours before the sun broke out of the clouds in a long, thin line, striking a puddle in the rut of an old farm track. It seemed to reflect a myriad of colors like a prism and Adam ran towards it, breaking through a hedge of dried out corn husks. There were no cars, cattle or barns. Just acres of land now beneath a birdless sky. With the sun so high it had to be noon. 

Something moved between the trees. A shadow in the mist, head nodding from side to side and feathers spinning in the wind. 

“Tarahuma,” Adam whispered, pausing there in the road, “is that you?”

He thought he saw a man wearing a gray beaded bodice and leggings with two others behind him. One with a flute and one with an eagle feather, yipping and wailing and pounding the ground. When an eagle shrieked in the distance the drums stopped. There were no shadows in the dew soaked grass and only his footprints marked a light dusting of snow on the road.

The road. He’d found the road.

It had been so long since he’d had a shower, slurped a coke or tied his shoelaces. Pushing one hand further into his coat pocket he reached for the money. He’d call his mom if he could get some change. Wednesday. Must be Wednesday.

He walked that bleak road for an hour, maybe two, turning around occasionally to map the trees and the rutted landscape. He counted the clouds and guessed their shapes. He tried to sing a scout song, only he couldn’t remember all the words. Whispering pines… eagles soaring … purple mountains… azure sky.

Sand and leaves skittered this way and that, and somewhere in the distance he heard the soft jingle of a wind chime. Then the scent of burning cedar and smoke spiraling behind a rise in the road. Picking up speed, he climbed the hill, a cold sweat pricking the back of his neck. Just before he tipped over the rise, a familiar sound. A high pitched whine.

It could have been the wind through a blade of grass or a herder’s whistle. It wasn’t a threatening sound. More like a dog’s version of hello. He turned sharply and there in the middle of the road about ten feet back was a dog. Black coat snagged with mud and leaves, head lowered to the ground.

Adam stood there for a while, hand flat across his brow. It was a large dog with a square head and tail thicker than a rudder. Could have been a Newfoundland or a long-haired retriever. Could have been… no, it couldn’t.

Adam walked back a few paces, and then some more. Crouched and held out a hand. His fingers tingled against the cold muzzle and then he hooked his arms around that neck, smelling wet fur and grass and other things he couldn’t describe. He sobbed harder than he did the first night he was taken and Murphy just made those grunting sounds dogs do. His whiskers were damp from the puddle back there but God only knew what he had eaten. Probably dug himself a den near a stream, probably ate a rabbit or two. Probably followed Adam’s tracks. But he was alive.

Thank God, he was alive.

“Your dog, son?”

Adam twisted around to find an old man, leaning on a wooden hiking stick. It spooked him at first. “Yes, sir.”

“Looks hungry. Got a nasty limp. If you want, I can give him some food. I can give you some food and all.”

Adam slicked back his hair with one hand and bobbed his head. “I’m a bit thirsty, sir,” he said, standing.

“Where you from?” The old man inclined his head, but he never stopped smiling.

“Albuquerque.”

“You’re a long way from Albuquerque. I’d say you were lost.”

“My… my dad’s sick. I had to leave him back there. He needs help. Real bad.”

The old man nodded his head. “Follow me, son. And bring your dog. We’ll call an ambulance―”

“Oh, no, sir. He doesn’t need an ambulance.” Adam dangled his hand for Murphy to sniff, urging him on with a pat.

The old man walked him to an adobe house with blue painted shutters and small courtyard. There were ristras hooked to a porch truss and wind chimes that twisted slightly in the wind.

There was a shake in the old man’s hand and a wheeze in his voice. He coughed a lot too. “Is your dad coughing? Course if he’s coughing I can make a mug of hot buttered rum. Opens up the chest. He’d like that.”

Adam nodded. Ramsey would like more than one. “No, it’s his leg. He fell. It doesn’t look good.”

“Scrapes get infected. He’ll need bandages. Where are you headed?”

Adam had no idea. Ramsey had never told him. He felt a tightening in his stomach every time he told a lie. “We’re doing an orienteering exercise. For scouts.”

“Now you’re talking. Which troop? I used to do scouts. Course I was a bit older than you when I got my orienteering badge. Ever been to Philmont? Climbing Baldy Mountain’s bad enough, only we had to do it at a run. Course when you’re on the top it’s like riding the clouds. Name’s Jim Trader, but everyone just calls me Trader. You have a name?”

Adam knew he couldn’t give Mr. Trader his name, couldn’t tell him anything and he felt bad about that. “James,” he blurted out. It sounded like an honest name.

“Good and biblical.” Another rough cough. “Jesus’ brother eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Adam didn’t want to talk about Jesus, not in the same breath as lying.

“Here we are then.” Trader opened the front door and brought them into a small parlor. It had a long wooden table in the middle of the room and a range behind it. “There’s some stew on the stove. My Nan used to make a mean stew, only she’s been gone two years now. I’ll get a bowl for the dog.”

Adam looked for a phone. Couldn’t see one among the old newspapers on the counter and there wasn’t one on the wall. Just a picture of a boy wearing a scout uniform and a second class badge like his. Old people didn’t have cell phones. They didn’t have much of anything, except boxes of nails and old car parts and rusted out tins of who knows what.

He could smell that mean stew and he licked his lips just thinking about it. Trader said a blessing. It went on for a while and in the background Murphy made slurping noises and crunched on a few pieces of dried toast he found in the grate. After dinner Trader fetched the first aid box down from a shelf in the pantry. Pain killers he said. About six months old. Didn’t need them where he was going.

“Better stay until the morning, son. It’s going to be dark soon. Storm’s coming. You’ll need to see to your dog.” There were three goat’s-heads in one paw, deep down between the pads. Trader took them out with a pair of tweezers, fingers rough from all the work he’d done. “He’ll need to rest and so will you.”

Trader made a bed on the couch in the parlor and spread out blankets for the dog. He let Adam take a bath, washed his scout clothes too. Told him about his grandson, how he always wanted to get his Eagle.

“Did you get your Eagle, sir?” Adam asked.

“I did, son. Evan would have too… if he’d lived.”

“What did he die of?”

“God just takes some folk young, I guess.”

Adam slipped in and out of sleep that night, happy to smell the dog beside him, happy to hear his snores. He could hear deep throated coughs in another room and his own frail breath in the blackness.

It wouldn’t be wrong to write a note, something Trader could give to the police. Adam could leave it on the kitchen table with his mother’s name on it. He would leave Trader some money too. He penciled a few lines on a scrap of paper, wrapped it around a fifty dollar bill and left it peeking out under the tea caddy.

The old man was up at dawn, scraping out a pan of oatmeal into a china bowl. “Sleep all right, son?”

“Yes, sir.” Adam licked his lips. He looked for the note. It was still there.

“Seen any woodsmen in your travels?” Trader asked.

Adam shook his head. Didn’t want Trader to know about the old man. “No, sir.”

“Where exactly is your pa? He’s not in the woods is he?”

“Not far. Just over the hill.”

Trader nodded slowly, eyebrows drawn together. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you?”

“I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Adam ate most of that bowl until he couldn’t hold the hurt in any more. It was like when his grandpa was alive, how when they visited him hospital that last time. How those bony hands clawed through Adam’s hair as he said goodbye.

“My chest,” Adam patted the place where his heart was and he began to sob. “It’s bursting. I… I―”

“It’s alright son.” Trader put an arm around him, strong and warm and full of love. “I prayed for you in the night and I prayed for your pa. There’s a flask of hot buttered rum in here,” Trader said, taking the pack and slipping over Adam’s shoulders. “A few things I thought you might need.”

“Do you have a phone?” Adam asked, wiping his eyes. “I need to call my mom.”

“You can have it,” old Trader said. “I won’t be needing it no more. It’s charged. Should last three days.”

“I can’t―”

“Yes, you can, son. Here,” he wrapped Adams hands around a black cell phone and nodded. “It’s yours.” 

Adam dialed the number, heard a click and a sharp intake of breath. “Mom. It’s me.”

She sounded different, strained. “Adam… Where are you? Is it really you?”

“It’s me, mom.”

She cried some and then asked the question Adam hoped she wouldn’t. “When are you coming home?”

“Soon mom, we’re on Operation Gray Fox—”

“Are you eating OK?”

“Squirrels, birds—stuff. Everything’s fine Mom.” He wanted to cry, felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to ask about his dad, about the funeral. But Trader was listening, head cocked to one side. “I have to go, mom. Love you.”

Trader gave him some gloves and a wooly hat. Told him there was enough water for him and the dog. Told him to be careful out there. Sent him out that cloudy day with a wave and a smile. Shouted
Godspeed
at the top of that grainy voice.