Shaman Winter (37 page)

“El destino,” he whispered. El destino is the tradition and custom that can trap a man. But it's more than that. It's the soul's connection to the universal destiny, a road map we do not yet know. A fate unfolding itself before our eyes. That's one reason he liked to read. The poets spoke of fate, karma, a kind of inexorable working of the universe where all the souls wound toward their destiny.

He wished he could recall something appropriate about time and the river. “Oh, lost and by the wind grieved”… or “The fault, dear Cesar, lies not in our stars, but in the river of our birth.” Life is like a river. The Río Grande had been the river of his ancestors for hundreds of years, and so the bones and blood had seeped into the water.

A four-by-four boss truck riding high cut Lorenza off. The young cowboy in it grinned. Lorenza started to flip him off, then shook her head.

“Pendejo,” she said. “He bought a truck, lifted it ten feet off the ground, now he goes around threatening people.”

“Macho guys,” Sonny added. It was happening. Young men with tough cars and trucks and guns. They blew each other off, and more and more they turned their anger on strangers. Road rage. Rage against life.

The traffic going toward Rio Rancho moved slowly. Commuters plugged the road. The new Cottonwood Mall seemed to be thriving with last-minute Christmas business. On the hill, the Intel building rose like a giant behemoth, a dangerous whale beached on the sands of the West Mesa.

Half the computers in the world ran on Intel chips, Sonny knew. The biggest corporation in the state, Mona Vandergriff's playground. So how did she and Eric figure into the bigger picture?

“We'll soon know,” Lorenza said, turning down Doña Catarina Court. “Sixty sixty-nine, right? This should be it.”

Mona Vandergriff's brick house sat on a quiet street.

Sonny looked out the window. The ranch-style house was landscaped in gravel, cactus, a few juniper bushes. Neat xeriscape, a desert landscape for those into water conservation.

Three houses down Lorenza drove up to the curb and parked.

“What now?”

“Take a look inside.”

“Break in? Hey, this isn't 'Burque,” she reminded him. “This is Rio Rancho, the all-American city. If these cops find you in the house of the woman who runs Intel, you will spend Christmas, and probably the entire new year, in jail.”

“It's the only lead we have.”

He was studying the quiet residential street. He knew he could be in the house quickly. His first break-in in a wheelchair. And the secretary had said Mona was in D.C.

“Pretend we're soliciting for Goodwill if someone gets snoopy,” he said as he let down the lift. “I shouldn't be gone long.”

“Cuidado,” Lorenza whispered.

He let himself down the lift and rolled to the front door. There was no time to scope the backyard. Thankfully, the front door of Mona Vandergriff's home was handicapped accessible.

Just in case, he rang the doorbell three times and waited. No answer, no dogs barking, so he jimmied the door and checked for a security system. Nada. He wheeled in, turned, and shut the door behind him.

A small rose-colored divan and a vanity graced the anteroom. He wheeled himself into a spacious living room. Spotless, new furniture, trendy. Rio Rancho chic, Sonny figured.

No children. He wheeled to the patio door, checked for backyard dogs. Nada. The woman lives alone. He made his way down a hallway toward the bedroom area. Pictures adorned the wall. One from “your friend” Ronald Reagan. Other top government officials, including the FBI's Doyle. A shot of her at NASA, one in Russia standing next to Yeltsin. The photo that made Sonny pause was Mona at the beach. Next to her stood a tanned, muscular Leif Eric. “Mona my love, thanks for a week in heaven.” Signed, “Leif.”

“Lordy,” he whispered. Mona Vandergriff was quite a beauty. Dark short hair, a pleasing smile, a wrinkle or two beginning to appear around the eyes, but those only lent her a mature, aggressive look. She was smiling, apparently happy with the week in heaven.

The fun-loving twosome didn't exactly conjure up militia-outfitted Avengers. Not the kind of people who would blow up a bomb to take over the government.

Three huge mirrors adorned the bedroom walls, all reflecting the king-size bed. The carpet so plush the wheelchair almost stalled. Sonny chugged to the closet and opened the door. What he saw made him gasp.

Neatly hung behind Mona's business suits were two camouflage military uniforms. Militia wear. Cyber was right. On the floor, mountain boots. On the shelf above, where women normally kept shoes, sweaters, and purses, were stacked two AK-47s. High-powered stuff.

“So she loves the outdoors,” Sonny said sarcastically. “Doesn't prove a thing. I bet she also has hand grenades stored somewhere, all come in handy during a weekend stroll in the mountains.”

Two huge files sat to the back of the very spacious closet. Sonny pulled a handle and the drawer slid out. He riffled through the files. Lots of Intel material. The second and the third were all the same, but in the bottom drawer was the thing he was looking for. The Doomsday file, thin but full of encrypted codes he couldn't begin to read.

He was flipping through it for names when he heard the front door open, and a happy but muffled voice. “There's wine in the fridge. I'm going to take a shower.”

Eric and Mona? She's supposed to be in D.C.

“Chingao,” Sonny cursed. Could he race to the patio door and make a quick escape in the wheelchair?

No, the voice was already in the hallway, heading for the bedroom. He was trapped! He slid quickly into the closet and closed the door behind him. He turned the chair and pushed back against the wall, away from her gowns, covering himself with the business suits.

He didn't hear her footsteps on the carpet. The closet door opened and Mona Vandergriff quickly pulled a silk gown down from its hanger. She closed the door and headed for the shower.

Sonny breathed relief, then peered through the slats. He saw her enter the bathroom, heard the water running.

Make a run now, he thought, and was about to push out when a tall, assured Leif Eric entered the bedroom, two glasses in one hand, a bottle of New Mexico chardonnay in the other. Had Eric sensed his movement? Sonny held his breath as Eric looked toward the closet, approached, then shook his head and returned to the bed table.

He poured the wine, sat at the edge of the bed, slipped off his shoes, and drank. He finished the glass of wine and stood to remove his jacket and tie.

Mona, draped in the silk gown, entered from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. “Lord, it was a tough week,” she muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Eric replied. He handed her a glass of wine.

“I'm glad to see you.” She lifted the glass in a toast.

“I'm glad to see you.”

“This makes it all worthwhile.”

He held and kissed her. “I would go insane if I didn't have you.”

The gown opened and he pressed his hands against her breasts. She moaned, then drew back.

“Raven?” she asked.

Eric frowned. “Not dead yet, but he soon will be. But let's not talk about it.”

“What do you mean ‘soon'? You know how dangerous he is. Why haven't they caught him?”

“Not that easy,” Eric replied. “Look, let's not discuss Raven. I only have a few hours. Let's relax.…”

He ran his hands down her hips.

“Yes,” she murmured.

“God, I need you.” He kissed her hard, taking her breath.

“And I need you. I am so fucking tired of the nerds I work with.”

“I've got the thing for all that tension.”

“I need it,” she moaned, “oh, I need it. I'm still cold.”

“I can warm you up.”

“Promise, laserlick.”

He laughed and pulled her down on the bed.

Sonny leaned forward, slightly moving a suit on a hanger. The squeak was barely perceptible, but Eric heard it.

“Do you have mice?” he asked, and stood, facing the closet.

“No,” she replied, drawing her gown around her and reaching into the nightstand by her bed. When she turned, she was pointing a .38 toward the closet.

“Raven?” she asked, glancing at Eric.

“Sonofabitch!” he swore, stepped to the closet, and threw the door open.

Sonny pressed the forward button on his chair and sped forward.

“Baca!” Eric cried.

“Who?” Mona exclaimed, a hair's breadth away from pulling the trigger.

“This is Sonny Baca, the private investigator!” Eric explained. “What the hell are you doing here!”

“Looking for the plutonium,” Sonny replied, staring from the barrel of the pistol into Mona's eyes. As long as he kept eye contact, she might not fire. He smiled. Most people didn't shoot at a smiling person. But then, Mona Vandergriff wasn't most people.

“So this is the great Sonny Baca.” She smiled, and her trigger finger eased. “I should kill you for breaking and entering.”

“Ruin your carpet,” Sonny replied, still staring at her.

Her smile broadened. “You're probably right.” She glanced at Eric. “Should I?”

Sonny cleared his throat. “Uh, I've got someone outside waiting for me. A shot would bring them in—”

“I don't give a shit who you've got,” the undaunted Mona replied. “This is a break-in. You threatened us. I have a right to defend myself.”

“You've got a point,” Sonny said, widening his smile. Lord, she had a point.

Eric raised his arm, hesitated. His voice grew icy.

“Who's waiting for you?”

“One of Matt Paiz's boys—”

“I don't believe you! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you, looking for the plutonium.”

“Why here? Oh, you think we have it?” He laughed.

“You set me up,” Sonny replied, “so you became a suspect.”

“What do you mean set you up?”

“You didn't tell me about Raven's past. That he was a courier for the labs. That you've used him in the past.”

Eric nodded, his shoulders sagged. “Put the gun away,” he whispered. Mona let her arm drop to her side. Sonny let out a sigh of relief.

“That was the past,” Eric said. “We didn't know he would go crazy.”

“Is that why you're trying to kill him?”

“He needs to be killed for a lot of reasons.”

“Doyle has a contract on him?”

“I don't inquire into Doyle's business,” Eric shot back. “All I know is the man has a plutonium pit, he's running around the country, and he has already hired one greedy Ukrainian! If Doyle takes him out, so much the better.”

“He
also
knows a lot,” Sonny said.

“What do you mean?”

“He knows about the Avengers.”

Eric glanced at Mona, who was coldly watching the exchange, as if measuring the two. She picked up her glass of wine to sip, shrugged.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Eric said.

Mona stepped forward, raising the pistol again. “Yes, I can say I shot in self-defense.”

“A man in a wheelchair is not much of a threat,” Sonny said.

“You know too much,” she replied.

“Don't let him rile you.” Eric stepped in front of her. “A lot of people in government know about the Avengers,” he said, looking at Sonny. “The FBI has a file on them, so what's it to us?”

“
Very few
people in government know about them,” Sonny replied. “The real question is, what do you know about them?”

“Nothing. The FBI says it's a hotheaded militia group. Saturday soldiers pissed off at the government. I don't understand what you're getting at.”

“You hired me to find Raven and never told me he had worked for the labs!” Sonny exploded. “That's what I'm getting at. And the military uniforms in the closet! What about the Doomsday group?”

“Oh, I get it,” Mona replied. “You're trying to tie me to a militia group.” She laughed softly. “You're way off track. I've been a sharpshooter since I was in college. Saturdays when I get a chance to go out, I go to the range and shoot. I dress up for the part. There's a group of us—ladies. Mostly professional women. We call ourselves Doomsday. If it proves anything, you're welcome to join us sometime. I assure you, we're quite harmless, perhaps that's why we use the name Doomsday. Some of the
nicest
women in town belong.”

Eric nodded, confirming her story. Alibis thick as flies, Sonny thought. Where did the truth lie?

“You haven't done your research, Mr. Baca,” Mona continued. “Or should I call you Sonny? You should know our security receives briefings from the FBI. We keep files on terrorist groups. Actually, we keep files on any nation, corporation, or individual who might threaten our firm. That's no secret.”

“Same at the labs. The FBI helps us, so we supply them with information,” Eric said.

“Why didn't you tell me about Raven?”

“Not relevant,” Eric responded. “The only thing you have to know is that he's got the plutonium. If you can help Paiz, fine. If not—”

“It's not fine. Not if I put my life on the line!”

Mona raised an eyebrow, smiled. “You mean like being shot for being in the wrong woman's bedroom?”

“You're making too much of the Avenger thing,” Eric said. “The truth is there are groups like them all over the country.”

“None so well placed,” Sonny said.

“I think you should leave now,” Mona interjected. She had kept her eyes on him the entire time, measuring him. She had come close to killing him, and the excitement shone in her eyes.

“You need a security system.”

“I know. Or take my chances with whoever breaks in.”

Eric looked at her, frowned. “Just get out of here.”

“Sure.” Sonny started out.