Doubleback: A Novel (33 page)

Eventually, the road wound around a narrow pass and Raffi stopped in a clearing. A faded hand-painted sign said they’d arrived at the Lanedo Camp. Behind the signpost were several wooden cabins, low and squat. A picnic table sat in front of the cabin. Georgia was surprised. The camp looked deserted. Who’d want to picnic here? She slid out of the pickup and shaded her eyes. The ground was studded with rocks, tumbleweeds, and tall grass. Across the clearing was a cliff with an outcropping high enough to look down on the twisty pass they’d just traveled. “Where are we?”

“An abandoned mining camp. Used to be bigger, but it was chopped into parcels when the mines closed.”

“What were they mining?”

“Copper mostly, but a little gold and silver, too. Even turquoise. But nothing now.”

“Which makes it a safe meeting place.”

He looked over. “Who said this was my meeting place? This is the end of the road for you. You’re staying here.”

She stiffened. “You’re—you’re ditching me?”

“You’ll be safe here.” He went to the back of the truck and pulled out a smallish 40 caliber Glock and a pair of binoculars. He came back, handed her the semi-automatic, and draped the field glasses around her neck. “Do some bird watching. I’ll be back.”

“I can’t believe this. I told you—”

“You’re not coming.”

She glared, making sure he felt her anger. “You’re a piece of work.”

He grinned as he made his way back to the pickup. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Why the Glock? I’ve got my Sig.”

“You might run into a snake or two around the camp. You’re supposed to leave them alone. It’s illegal to kill ’em.”

She called out. “But?”

“But I figure you’re pissed off enough to want some target practice, and I wouldn’t want you to waste your ammo.”

“Is this a joke?”

“You can’t kill gila monsters either. But they move pretty slow. You should be okay.”

“You live in a state with monsters?”

His grin broadened. “Yup.” He hoisted himself back into the pickup, keyed the engine, and put it into gear.

“Where’s the ammo for the Glock?” She yelled out.

He stuck his head out the window. “You’ve only got the one mag. Use it wisely.”

“Fuck you, Peña.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” He saluted and drove away. As he accelerated, the truck kicked up a cloud of dust.

•   •   •

Georgia watched the truck disappear around a bend. The whine of the engine faded but resurged a moment later. He was rounding the switchback they’d driven on the way up. She went to the edge of the cliff and saw him a few hundred yards below. As the road straightened out, he picked up speed. She watched, caught between annoyance and amusement. Then she tucked the Glock into her waistband. She would poke around the camp. Maybe shoot a gila monster, just for the hell of it.

She was just about to turn back to the cabin when a dark-colored SUV appeared around a curve. It was heading toward Raffi. It wasn’t traveling fast but it was hogging the road. Raffi would either have to pull over or brake.

As the SUV approached, it slowed to a crawl. Georgia went on alert. She grabbed the field glasses. Focusing in, she spotted a man in the passenger seat cradling something long and thin. A rifle. The hair at the back of her neck stood up. The SUV’s passenger window lowered. A rifle barrel emerged.

Everything went into slow motion. The SUV stopped. The rifle angled toward the pickup. Georgia wanted to shoot, to yell out a warning, but she was too far away. Paralyzed and helpless, she screamed wordlessly.

Raffi must have realized what was happening because the pitch of his engine shifted, as though he’d abruptly downshifted. It was too late. Yellow muzzle flashes, visible even in the bright sun, spit from the rifle. Staccato cracks echoed through the hills.

For an instant, there was silence. Then a horn blast shattered the quiet. A flock of frantic birds lifted into the sky. Georgia started to call 911, then realized she had no cell service.

The SUV’s driver door opened and a man got out, aiming a pistol in Raffi’s direction. He jogged to the pickup. Georgia sharpened the focus on the binoculars. He looked vaguely familiar— compact, dark, wrap-around shades. As he drew close to the pickup, she prayed for a burst of rounds from Raffi’s M4, but there was nothing. He was still hunched over the wheel, unmoving. His horn was still blaring.

The driver holstered his gun and gestured to the shooter, who got out and joined the driver at the pickup. Together they dragged Raffi out of the truck. The shriek of the horn ceased, replaced by a stony silence. Even the breeze was hushed.

Georgia tried to focus on Raffi, but all she could see was his black ponytail. The top of his head was gone. Her mouth went dry; nausea climbed up her throat. She watched the men carry him to a stand of trees at the edge of the road. The shooter lugged him by his shoulders, the driver had his legs. His body trailed blood on the road. She upped the glasses’ magnification and watched. The man gripping Raffi’s legs was missing part of his left index finger.

She dropped the glasses, turned away from the cliff, and vomited. When there was nothing left to come up, she brought the binoculars up again. The men were rifling through Raffi’s flak jacket. Something flashed in the sun. His cell phone. They pocketed it. They took his hand guns, his ammo, and what might have been a grenade. Please, God, she prayed. Don’t let them detonate it. She needed the pickup to get back to town. They didn’t. Instead the men backtracked to Raffi’s pickup and searched the bed of the truck. The driver and the shooter exchanged words, after which the shooter scooped up Raffi’s duffel and threw it in the SUV.

The shooter got back into the passenger seat, but the driver halted at his door, looking around, as if checking to make sure he’d attended to everything. When his gaze swept up the hill, Georgia ducked and stepped back. For an instant, she thought he’d seen her. She dropped the binoculars and raced to one of the cabins. If they came this way, she’d pick them off one at a time from inside.

She yanked on the door, but it was locked. Her stomach twisted. She ran to the back of the cabin, braced herself against the wall, and pulled out her Sig. Nothing happened. From a distance, she heard an engine cough to life. A moment later the noise subsided to a hum. The SUV was going back down the road. She waited until it faded altogether. The silence stung her ears.

chapter
40

G
eorgia picked her way down to Raffi. His truck was where he’d left it, the engine softly running. Blood and bits of whitish matter were splattered over the seat, the steering wheel, the dash, even the windshield. The truck was infused with a coppery, still-warm smell. She turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. They’d dropped his body near the trees at the side of the road. They hadn’t bothered to conceal it; any passerby would see it.

She knelt beside his body. The bullet had entered his temple. She imagined the force knocking his head back. The bullet exited at an angle, which probably caused him to slump over the wheel. There wasn’t much left to his head. Georgia covered him with her blazer. She waited for a rush of sorrow to overwhelm her, but nothing came. The only thing she knew for certain was that she would never come to the mountains again.

She remembered Matt once telling her about the Jewish custom of placing stones on graves to symbolize the act of burial. She scrounged around, found a few small rocks, and laid them gently on Raffi’s chest. She bowed her head. Someone should mourn him.

After a while, she stood up and headed back to the pickup. She’d drive it back to Stevens, but exactly where, she wasn’t sure. She’d call the police when her cell kicked in, tell them about his body. She’d call the FBI and Customs, too, and tell them everything. It was time. Then, if they let her, she’d go to the hotel and get her things. Drive to the barrio to tell Carmelita what happened. Hopefully she or her brother could see to a proper burial.

She was breaking cover from the woods when she heard another vehicle chugging around the pass. Was the SUV coming back? Had they spotted her after all? Gone for reinforcements? She ducked into the woods. It sounded like another pickup. Raffi’s truck was in the middle of the road—whoever it was wouldn’t be able to pass without stopping. And when they did, they’d see his body. She hid behind a tree and pulled out her Sig.

The brakes screeched. The gears shifted; the pitch of the motor changed to an idle. A door squeaked open.

“What the fuck?” A male voice. High-pitched. Nervous. “Who is that?”

“Don’t get too close, Tate.” Another voice. Firm. Authoritative. “It could be a set-up.”

Then there was silence. Georgia felt jumpy. What were they doing? Drawing their weapons, getting a bead on her? The high-pitched voice again, ragged and scared. “Oh Christ! It’s Peña!”

He was only a few yards away. Blood shouted in her ears.

“Aw, shit!” He cried.

Footsteps crunched through the brush. They were close.

“Oh, fuck me! He was always so careful.”

Once more there was silence. Had they spotted her? She heard a rustle. Then the snap of a twig. She considered trying to flee through the brush, bullets be damned. But the reality was she wouldn’t get very far. To tell the truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to run. Something inside her had begun to rip, like a tiny tear in flimsy material. It could eventually split her apart. Better to face it head on.

She stepped away from the tree. One of the men was crouched in a shooter’s stance. The other was beside him. Both had guns aimed at her, and both racked their slides. The man with the voice of authority barked. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”

•   •   •

Propped up against the cab in the bed of their pickup, Georgia was only dimly aware of her surroundings. Chills alternated with sweat, and her brain was fogged with pain. They’d taken her Sig and the Glock, lifted her blazer from Raffi’s body and fished through the pockets for her Chicago blue card and license. They tied her arms and legs, then threw her in the back of the truck. Her broken wrist was pinned behind her back, caught in a vise of pain so sharp she could barely breathe. As they drove, she bounced around the bed of the pickup, drifting in and out of consciousness.

One of the men followed in Raffi’s pickup, the second drove the pickup she was in. Mercifully, it was a short ride. She couldn’t see out of the truck but she heard the crunch of gravel. The pickup stopped. The sudden cessation of motion made her roll over onto her broken wrist. A fresh stab of pain shot through her. She screamed. Then everything went loose, and a soft black curtain descended.

•   •   •

When she came to, she was lying on a ratty sofa that smelled of stale cigarettes and onions. Her legs were still bound, but her arms were free. Her casted arm rested on her chest. She opened her eyes to a colorless blur. She blinked. Things slowly swam into focus.

She was inside a large room. It looked like the interior of one of the Lanedo cabins, maybe the one she couldn’t get into earlier. Now, though, a transformation had taken place, as if someone had waved a magic wand and brought the scene to life. Several men milled around, all of them dressed in camo gear or fatigues. One was spooning beans from a tinned can. Most of the men had heavy beards and short hair. Two were bald. Two women puttered around a primitive kitchen. One stirred something into a pot. They wore fatigues, too. Everyone had pistols strapped to their waists.

Where had they been earlier? Were they checking her out from some unseen hideout? Georgia tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness stopped her. She plopped back down. One of the women eyed her, then motioned to the man eating beans.

“Untie her legs, Rem. I don’t think she’s gonna run.”

The man put down his beans and came over to Georgia. He needed a bath. He untied the rope around her legs.

Georgia swallowed. Her throat felt like it was full of sand. “Water,” she croaked.

The woman filled a jelly jar with water from a barrel, brought it over, and held it against her lips. Georgia gulped it down.

“You want to sit up?” The woman asked.

When she nodded, the woman helped her wedge herself against the back of the couch. She was weak, but the dizziness had subsided. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded and called out. “She’s back, Whit.”

The man with the authority in his voice came out from a room in the back. He wore camo gear and work boots. A large 45 was holstered around his waist. He was a tall brawny man with a fair complexion and sandy hair. Earlier he’d had on shades, but now he was wearing clear glasses.

Georgia usually had a thing for men in glasses. Matt had worn them, and she thought they gentled him. Not this man. Behind his glasses were icy blue eyes that held no warmth. But there was no hostility, either. He studied Georgia as if she was not quite human—at best a minor complication.

The man called Tate followed behind Whit. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he said, “We should have done her back on the road.”

“Shut up, Tate,” Whit said.

“She offed Peña.”

“Why don’t you take a couple of guys and make sure we got everything from his truck.” When Tate didn’t move, he added, “That’s an order.”

Tate blinked. He reminded Georgia of a fish that doesn’t know it’s been hooked. Then he picked up a shotgun propped up against a wall and headed to the door.

Whit pulled up a chair, flipped it around backwards, and sat. “So, your name is Georgia Davis and you’re a PI from Chicago.”

“What are you going to do with his body?”

“Why do you care?” He was matching her, question for question.

“I was hoping his friends in Stevens could bury him.”

“And who might they be?”

She eyed him. “Who are
you
?”

“Did you shoot Peña?”

“No.”

“Prove it.” Tate called from the doorway.

Whit twisted around. “Tate, get the fuck out. You’re getting on my nerves.”

A flush crept up Tate’s neck, but he exited the cabin.

Georgia waited until the door closed. “My Sig isn’t powerful enough to do what they did to him.”