Fatal Divide (15 page)

Shit, he’d been rude as hell to a guy whose help he needed. Thankfully, Bill didn’t seem to be as mad about it as Ange was. He declined coffee, since he needed to be able to sleep as soon as his business with Bill was finished. Bill accepted. Dylan assumed that night shift required loads of caffeine.

He’d given some thought earlier to what he was going to ask Bill, but Dylan hadn’t known that Wanda was a wanted fugitive then, and he didn’t know where Bill stood on that matter now. It would be better to stay away from the subject of Wanda, if he could, and focus on the Diablos.

“Thanks for coming by, Bill. Sorry I’m late. Got hung up having a fight with my girlfriend.” Dylan ignored the strange glance from Ange and shook Bill’s hand.

“Women, can’t live with ‘em...” Bill began. At a look from Ange, which encompassed both of them, Bill broke off with a sheepish grin. “What can I do for you, Dylan?”

Dylan was acquainted with Bill, but didn’t know him well. He was in Paul Ward’s age group, but had no kids that Dylan was aware of, or at least that had gone to school with him. Dylan had to size him up quickly to avoid long, uncomfortable pauses in the conversation. He’d pick up on those himself as something to hide. He had no doubt that Bill, with his longer law enforcement career, would do the same.

“Did Ange tell you what I was asking about?” he asked.

“Something about the motorcycle club. I gather you didn’t fill her in much.”

Dylan sent a silent thanks to Ange. He wanted to feel his way into this, and if Ange had told Bill of his concerns up front, he might not have even come. He might be arresting a bunch of hog enthusiasts instead.

“I’d like to keep this quiet,” he said, “but I’m wondering if that group of bikers that hang out at Stars have been any trouble.” Dylan watched closely as Bill visibly read between the lines.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Bill answered. “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. You got a beef with ‘em?”

“Not personally.” Dylan shook his head as Ange opened her mouth, and she closed it without speaking. “I’m concerned about their patch.”

“What of it?” Bill asked. Instead of answering directly, Dylan asked if he knew anything about the transaction that had transferred ownership of the bar to JT.

“Not much. Heard old Fred wanted to retire and these guys made him an offer,” Bill answered.

“Cash offer?” Dylan asked.

Bill narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you quit dancing and lay your cards on the table?” he asked. Dylan ignored the mixed metaphor.

“They wear a variation of the Diablos patch,” he said. “Outlaw MC out of San Berdoo. Heard of them?”

“Some. What would they be doing this far from home?” Bill asked.

Dylan let it pass. This wasn’t about educating the locals about outlaw clubs. Diablos’ tag line was ‘Coast to Coast’, but his interest was more in the local version of the club than the fact that they were widespread, if sparse. “With all the cartel activity around here, it doesn’t concern the sheriff’s department that a potential drug trafficking ring has moved into town?”

Bill’s face changed as he took in the implications. “Don’t know that we’ve even thought of it,” he admitted.

Dylan kept his opinion of the competence of the local branch of the sheriff’s department to himself. Most likely, Thurston set the agenda, and Dylan never had a high opinion of Thurston. He couldn’t blame the troops for the leader’s lack of imagination.

“I had an interesting evening over there the other night. They invited me to stay on my own side of town. I’d like to know what’s going down in that bar that they don’t want people to know about.”

“Good idea, man,” Bill answered. “I’ll look into it.”

“May be best to keep a low profile. I don’t think they like LE,” Dylan said, using the Park Service acronym for law enforcement.

“LE? Oh! Got it,” Bill said. Dylan began to wonder if he’d chosen the wrong person to help.

“Bill? Don’t let Thurston know this idea came from me. He doesn’t think much of me.”

“He... oh sure, Dylan,” Bill said. He winked at Ange. “My lips are sealed.”

Dylan wondered if he’d always wanted to say that.

“You can call me or come over any time after four,” Dylan said. “I think it’s urgent that we know what they’re up to. I can’t help but feel that their presence in town represents a threat to the peace around here.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Bill stood, revealing a belt full of gadgets. How did the guy relax with all that hanging on him? And where did he get off, coming into someone’s home and sitting down with a hip holster and weapon? This was going to be an uneasy liaison, Dylan could tell already.

He just hoped Bill didn’t slip and set off Thurston’s radar. The last thing he needed was the cantankerous sheriff on his back. Or a partner who couldn’t think on his feet.

THIRTY-ONE

Saturday morning

Wanda didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, or where she was when she woke up. The last thing she remembered was hearing a whispered conversation in the O’odham language. She couldn’t make out much of it because of the whispering, and also because, to her shame, she’d forgotten so much. What she could make out frightened her badly, especially when Hector was taken from her side in the dark space.

They’d been forced into what must have been a root cellar, below ground. Both stumbled to their knees as they struggled to negotiate the short ladder of deadwood and sotol fibers. Hector couldn’t stand up to his full height, and her hair brushed the ceiling, even though she was several inches shorter than Hector.

The floor and walls were carved out of hard-packed desert silt, with a few planks here and there to shore it up. As far as she knew, there was no door to cover the hole in the ground. If there was, it hadn’t been closed, allowing the whispered words to filter down through the opening.

Things had changed this morning, if it was morning. Hector was still gone, and Wanda was both hungry and in need of relieving her bladder.

“Ho!” she called, unsure whether an answer would cheer her or scare her even worse. “I need to urinate. Please, anyone?”

No answer. So, did that mean there was no one to answer her, or did they just not care? Wanda felt around her, not knowing what she was looking for, really just exploring her surroundings. The space was about twice her height in each direction, so maybe ten feet by ten feet, and roughly square. A palace, in terms of the mud huts that her forebears would have built for winter. It was neither warm nor cold, though the dirt under her hands was cool.

Wanda found nothing that could help her in her current predicament. No stored food, no water, not even a gourd that she could have used for a chamber pot. Except for her, the room was completely empty. That begged the question, what was it usually used for? Was it designed for holding people? If so, it was a poor design. They could have at least provided a hole where she could relieve herself.

Finding nothing of interest on the floor, Wanda began to search the walls for shelves, hooks, anything at all. The only thing of interest was the ladder, which was still in place. Could she climb up and leave if no one was here? That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

Nevertheless, she did climb up the four or five rungs, only to bump her head on something solid. There was a door after all. She put her hand above her head, holding onto the ladder with the other, and pushed. The door was solid and heavy. She couldn’t budge it. She tried calling out again, thinking perhaps her voice would carry through the door, but there was still no answer.

Defeated, she climbed back down and crawled to a corner, where she slumped against the wall and allowed herself to cry. After a few minutes, though, thoughts of her predicament, worry for her husband, even her hunger, took a back seat to her need to pee. In shame, she crawled to the corner behind the ladder and lowered her pants, then squatted and did what was necessary.

Disgust followed as she realized she had neither a way to wipe away the pee that clung to her, nor a way to clean her hands. Shuddering, she pulled up her clothes and made her way to the opposite corner. After a while, Wanda took up some dirt from the floor where she sat and rubbed it through her hands vigorously. It was all she could do.

Minutes or hours passed, she couldn’t tell which. Being in this room was like being in something she’d read about — a sensory deprivation chamber. The temperature was steady, there was no sound, except her own breathing and occasional mutter to herself. When a scraping noise alerted her to the door above her head, she almost shouted with joy.

Wanda called out. “Please! Let me out. I promise not to say anything. Please!” Strangely, though she was very hungry, she didn’t think to ask for food or even water. She just wanted out, no matter what that meant. Even if they planned to kill her,
out
was the goal. However,
out
was not in her captors’ plan. A rough hood was thrown down through the hold, and a gruff voice instructed her to put it on.

Willing to comply with almost anything to gain some concessions, Wanda pulled it over her head and called that she had it on. She heard some shuffling, and smelled food. Then a thump nearby made her jump, but no one touched her.

After a moment, the scraping returned, and Wanda dared take the hood off. The room remained pitch dark, but someone was now in the room with her. She could hear breathing, and there was food nearby if she could find it without spilling it.

“Who’s here?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. But, there was no answer. Carefully, she scooted sideways in the direction of the thump, patting the ground until her hands found the other person. Assuming the other was unconscious, she began exploring the body to find a clue as to his or her identity. A sinking feeling accompanied her exploration. The body felt very much like Hector’s — same size, same shape.

She shifted her hands to the face, drawing back with a sharp cry when she encountered a thick, sticky moisture on the side of his head. It was blood, she knew without seeing. She raised her hand to her nose and confirmed it by the odor. “Hector?” she asked, too quietly, as if afraid to wake him up. Her hand went to his chest, where, to her relief, she found a strong heartbeat.

Wanda threw herself on her unconscious husband’s chest, tears rolling down her face. “Hector, what did they do to you?” She hugged him fiercely, hoping against hope he would wake up.

At last, when he remained unresponsive, she crawled back to find the food and was gratified to find a bottle of water as well. Rubbing her hands with what she hoped was clean dirt again, Wanda separated the food on the plate roughly in half, and ate her share of the mutton stew and beans with her fingers, since their captors hadn’t provided a utensil.

She took only two sips of the water, conscious that she would need to share with Hector when he woke up, and they’d need to conserve it if they were to only get one bottle per day.

When she was done, Wanda placed the plate and bottle close to the wall, near the corner. Then she crawled back to her husband and curled up with her head on his chest. At least she had him with her now.

THIRTY-TWO

7:00 a.m.

Jimmy lit a cigarette, and then went outside to smoke it after Sophia sent him a poisonous look. He didn’t know what she was so pissed about. His own dad had smoked in the house; everyone he knew smoked in the house, kids or no kids. But he had more important things to worry about, so he didn’t want to spend any energy arguing with Sophia. He didn’t have any wish to harm the boy anyway.

Anna had come to the house last night, upset because a deputy from Dodge had asked her questions. Jimmy also questioned her sharply, about exactly what the sheriff asked and what she answered. All of that had been okay. What concerned him now was what happened to Wanda. She told Anna she was going to ask around among the old people, and then she disappeared. Why?

His best guess was that she had asked at the wrong house. He didn’t want to go bumbling after her, but he couldn’t get past the fact that she was probably in danger, if not dead, because of him. It was bad enough that his grandfather had been killed. He told the old man not to go to that meeting. He knew it was a trap, that the man Grandfather had spoken to on the phone was not the friend he claimed to be. When it came down to it, he refused to go, believing they wouldn’t harm the old man if he wasn’t there.

Well, he’d been wrong. The fact that he’d be dead too, if he’d gone, wasn’t much comfort. It was his fault, and now Wanda could be facing the same fate, or already dead. Or,
Los Reyes
could be holding her as bait. If he went looking for her, they’d both end up dead anyway.

Jimmy didn’t realize he was pacing in furious circles, waving his hand around and arguing with himself audibly, until Sophia came out to look at him. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, glancing around.

“No one,” he muttered. “Go back in the house, woman.”

She flinched and went back inside. Jimmy slammed his fist into the palo verde that shaded the back yard. Who could he trust? Who could he send in search of Wanda that wouldn’t end up just like her, either captured or dead? He wished he could decide which was the most likely. Hoped it was captured, even though his older cousin would be terrified.