Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (20 page)

They scrambled on through the woods that night, Adam in the lead. He felt the weight of Ramsey’s hand on his shoulder and he could smell the sour smell of alcohol. The sound of chattering teeth in his left ear made him jumpy. Ramsey must have been sick if he was shivering and cowled in a blanket from his pack. 

“What can you see, Night Eyes?”

“Just the path,” Adam murmured.

“Look again. Keep looking. And don’t stop.”

Adam let his eyes flick back and forth, sweeping over the terrain and the path ahead. Sporadic gusts of wind blasted through the trees, branches groaning with the strain.

Ramsey kept muttering and asking Adam if he was sure he could see the path, kept stumbling with the pack on his back. It wasn’t like him to make a whole pile of noise and wake up an owl. It scared them both and made Murphy pull at his leash. He didn’t bark. Didn’t even growl.

“Are you sure those rangers went south?” Ramsey whispered.

“I’m sure.”

“Hope they didn’t smell the wood smoke and start headed back. They could be anywhere. My gut tells me they’re here. Keep listening.”

Adam knew at least four were too far away in the woods, hiking up the slopes and headed south. As for the fifth, he would likely trudge all day in silence, head down and eyes soaking up every footprint they left behind.

“We have to keep moving,” Adam whispered, grabbing Ramsey by the arm.

“I’m OK.”

“You always say that.”

Ramsey straightened then. Like he’d shaken himself out of a drunken blur and decided to wake up.

It was hard going through the leaves and when it wasn’t leaves, it was pine needles ankle deep and nipping at your socks. Murphy was so quiet Adam almost forgot he was there, nose twitching and ears flapping in the wind.

Adam didn’t know why he wanted to help Ramsey, didn’t know what to call him either. Gray Fox… Ramsey. The feeling in his chest was hard to put into words and he let his lips play with each sound in that cold silence. He decided to call him nothing. It was easier that way.

Slabs of snow clung to the branches, some cupped in the leaves like a handful of pure cane sugar. It wasn’t as cold as the night before and the rain had washed away all the ice troughs in that narrow wooded path.

Sometimes Ramsey stopped and looked about and sometimes he just stood, ear cocked to the ground. He’d already chewed two of the pills Trader had given him and sucked down the flask of hot buttered rum. Kept complaining about the dark, how he couldn’t see beyond the trees.

Adam could see. He didn’t know if it was the way the moon fell on the ruts in the track and lit up the silver-gray puddles. He didn’t know if was the pale slatted light that God gave to his nighttime world.

“It’s worse than snaps and movers,” Ramsey said. “Know what they are?”

Adam shook his head, took a sip of water from his plastic bottle.

“Targets that suddenly pop up. Anywhere. Anytime. Those are the snaps. Random targets that slide left and right. Those are the movers. They can be fast. Out here, it’s different. Those targets are men and you won’t know how far away they are. Got to know the wind. Got to keep track of time. Every second.”

Snap! Snap, snap!

Murphy snorted and lifted his head. Adam watched his line of focus, saw movement up ahead and he stopped too. Ramsey stooped, breath hot against Adam’s cheek, heartbeat thudding against his left shoulder. Time began to crawl over the shifting wind, even the leaves seemed to shudder and become still again.

“What do you see?” Ramsey pushed Adam down to a crouch.

“Something… in the shadows.” Adam couldn’t see exactly what, but he knew something was there, slender as a man standing against a tree.

“How far?”

Adam calculated about thirty yards. It was the halo round the moon that enabled him to see everything above the brush. “See that tree, the one with the white bark… to the right.”

Ramsey whipped a look over his shoulder and listened. Then looked forward and listened again. The wind was playing hide and seek through the aspens, leaves chattering even louder now. “Chances are, he sees us.”

To the right of them was the edge of the woodland with a large field beyond. It was too exposed to made a dash for it, every ridge and furrow lit by an eerie glow. They must have been silhouetted against the silvery sky and the ranger could likely see them from the darkness of his roost.

The moon was bright like a frying pan, glowing down on that wintry path. But it couldn’t shine behind bushes, nor could it tattle on their position. They were well hidden behind those tall grasses where random shafts of light filtered down between the trees. No one could have seen them.

“What are we going to do?” Adam asked, knees wobbling beneath the weight of his pack.

“We’re going to wait until he makes a move.”

They didn’t have to wait long. The ranger also slipped to a crouch behind that tree, only he couldn’t see much more over the tops of the grasses than they could. He stayed that way for a time and then stood slowly and extended an arm.

“He’s got a gun. Can’t see us.” Adam said.

“How do you know?”

“Pointed too far to the right.”

Ramsey nodded and squeezed Adam’s shoulder. “Moving to the left might be an idea, but we’ll wait in case he changes his mind.”

The ranger didn’t change his mind. He came on with his gun held out in front, moving slowly, eyes trained on a quaking piñon far out in the middle of the field beyond the wood.

“Sure it’s not a trick?” Adam whispered.

“Too far in the open for a trick. I could have shot him by now.”

Ramsey indicated the need for silence, the ranger was getting too close and the dog was coughing up a growl or two. Adam held Murphy’s snout, pulled the dog in closer as they listened to stealthy footsteps crunching on dead pine needles, shoulder snapping off a few twigs.

There was silence then, as if the man was cussing over his mistake and then he lumbered on, no longer listening or looking at the shadows the trees made over the snow. He just trudged towards the field, gun held downwards in both hands. He was all dressed in black, except for that round ashen face.

Ramsey looked up at the sky and then out at the fields.  But there was nothing to see. When the man had gone on a distance, they crawled slowly through the grass, hearing their footsteps in the leaves. Adam tried to remember where they had come from, whether they were walking east or west, whether they were walking in circles. Ramsey didn’t seem to care. He just sniffed a few times, hiked his chin up and stared at the night sky and then looked back at the field. The man was still walking towards that tree.

Ramsey seemed to know what he was doing. Seemed to know the way. And when he didn’t, he just stopped for a while and looked down at Adam, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious. He was brave, walking on that bad leg and not even stopping for a break. His back was straight when he waited for the wind, head aslant as he listened to the rattle of leaves overhead. He said he liked the sound. Reminded him of the rush of seawater on sand.

Adam knew it reminded him of other things too. Of a girl in a black swimsuit with shiny black eyes. Tiny pinched in waist and cream colored skin.

Ramsey stumbled on and then slowed, took one step forward and then another. It was the sound of a truck on a nearby road that seemed to change his mind. Only this wasn’t the road Adam heard when he hiked out to Trader’s house. This was another road, smaller, snaking up through the aspens and over the brow of a hill.

“This isn’t it,” Ramsey whispered. He stopped and parted a tall clump of grass with his hands. Looked ahead and behind, especially behind.

A creaking somewhere in the trees above them, the hoot of an owl. Adam trembled in the cold, watched the gray serpentine of that road and wished a truck would happen by. Clouds threatened to block out that metallic shimmer, the only light they had. There was a lingering odor of damp wood and soil and the occasional rasp of wet grass in the wind.

They heard that sound again, another snap, another groan. Ramsey was focused behind them now, looking out towards that field. He moved his head from side to side, neck outstretched as if he caught something in the shadows. He pulled Adam gently to the ground, made him sit with his legs out in front, back against a tree. The ground they sat on was dry, long grass weaving around them like an old wattle house.

Adam was too tired to look. He’d only slept in fits and starts since Ramsey took him, images of his mother pounding in his head like relentless waves on a pebbly beach. In just over a week he’d had a year’s worth of scares and now he was drifting aimlessly in a forever gray world. He hoped they weren’t lost.

“Better put a hand over your dog’s mouth,” Ramsey whispered, patting the air with his hand. “He is your dog, right?” Ramsey must have seen the look on his face and if he couldn’t he could sense it. “It says so on the tag. The one in your pocket. Oh, and I took the phone and switched it off. Don’t want that giving us away, do we?”

Adam swallowed back some grit in his throat and nearly coughed. He would have taken another drink if that wretched bottle didn’t crackle so much every time he unscrewed the lid.

Snap!

“He’s come back around,” Ramsey murmured. “He tricked us.”

Rain crawled down the office window followed by a spatter of sleet. Temeke lit up a cigarette. Didn’t care if Hackett could smell it next door. It could have been worse, something slimmer from the evidence locker, only that stuff smelled like burnt sausages and there wasn’t a cop in sight who didn’t know the difference.

He dialed Serena’s number, waited for the sixth ring, resisting that desperate urge to shout when it went to voicemail. Always bloody voicemail.

Taking a long drag and huffing out a large cloud of smoke, he left a  message. “It’s me, love. Course you know that. But what you don’t know is, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m married to the Scarlet Pimpernel. I’m also beginning to wonder if you’re too scared to bring me those divorce papers. That’s why you called me, wasn’t it? And if it wasn’t, it must have been on account of the copious quantities of wasp spray in the garage. Two boxes last I counted. You can pick them up any time.”

He tapped the
END
button and slammed the phone down on the filing cabinet. Never mind weeks of silence, he’d rather have a pile of bleeding insults than silence. And the wasp spray? It was her way of warding off Jehovah’s Witnesses and any other religious freaks in the neighborhood.

Talking of religious freaks, where the heck was Malin? She was missing all the fun. It was nine o’clock on a Friday morning and the officers were already in the canteen raiding a box of bagels and cream cheese. There’d be none left if she didn’t hurry up.

He heard footsteps outside his door, ground that cigarette in the bottom of a china mug and picked up the phone. Just as he expected it went straight through to Mrs. Oliver’s voicemail. He left a brief message that he wanted to meet with her and hung up.

A tapping at the door and Fowler popped his head in. “Thought I could hear voices,” he said.

“And I thought I could hear an earhole pressed against the door.”

“I’d like a couple of words. Preferably not sod off.”

“Listen, unless you’ve got something important to say like lord Lucan is downstairs and has just given himself up, you’re wasting my time. Where’s Hackett by the way.”

“He was talking about a cruise.”

“On the Marie Celeste? I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

Temeke frowned. It was a detective’s job to be alert, especially where Hackett was concerned. As for Fowler, he was too cocky for his own good, brass chinking against that starched suit. If he wasn’t careful Temeke would find him a cell to kip in with the usual nightly quota of vomiting, screaming drunks.

“Good news,” Fowler said, squeaking his way to Malin’s chair in a brand new pair of shoes. “Had a Mr. Trader on the phone again this morning. Call box near Glenwood. Said there was something he forgot to mention. Coughing up a storm. Didn’t sound too well. Thinks the boy on the news is definitely the one he saw. Said the kid left him a note and a telephone number. It’s Mrs. Oliver’s number all right. The kid also left him a fifty dollar bill which may have a few familiar serial numbers. Trader said the kid also had a black dog. Now, why would he have a black dog?”

Temeke wondered why Fowler was looking at him all funny and copped a shrug.

“Thing is, the dog had a tag on its collar. ‘Murphy’ it said.”

“Common enough name‒”

“Nah, I’ve never heard that name. Have you?” Fowler turned to Jarvis who was standing in the doorway trying to focus bleary eyes on his wrist watch.

“Sounds Irish,” was Jarvis’ meager offering.

“Funny thing is, Adam’s dog’s called Murphy.” Fowler pursed his lips for a second. “How the dog managed to make it to Gila National Forest I’ll never know. Someone must have given him a ride.”

Temeke kept his eyes on Fowler. Never blinked. Never twitched. “Ever seen The Incredible Journey?”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to believe a trumped up story about a dog traveling two hundred some miles on foot. Cause I won’t believe a word.”

Temeke rubbed his chin. The fact that the same dog had done it in four hours and fifty-two minutes was best kept to himself. “Where does Mr. Trader live?”

“4567 Little Creek Road about seven miles west of the National Monument. I sent Maggie Watts over there. Thought she needed a dose of flu not me.”

“It never rains, but it flaming pees. Why send her? I could have gone.”

“You’re staying right here. Where the action is.”

“What action? I’ve interviewed fifteen bloody people in the past week, three of whom have nothing better to do than listen in to Mrs. Oliver’s telephone calls.”

“And how is Mrs. Oliver?”

He would bloody well ask. Already got the hots for the poor old bat. “Well, now, there’s a conundrum. I’ve called her a few times and she never picks up. Thank Officer Watts for keeping my seat warm, but I’ll take over now.”

“You want the even better news?” Fowler said, giving a sly old wink. He waited a few seconds and when Temeke failed to rise to the occasion, he said, “Mayor Oliver’s come round. Wants to see you.”

That’s why Mrs. Oliver hadn’t answered her phone, Temeke thought. “Right, I’m on my way. Note to self, get a large box of Darjeeling and two tea cups.”

“Before you go,” Fowler said, jabbing a finger in Jarvis’ arm, “you might want to see this.”

Jarvis pulled out a copy of the journal from under his sweaty pit. The front page was full of the usual propaganda; New Mexico’s largest semi-conductor manufacturing facility was making investments in six far eastern technology companies. A photo of Hackett opening his front door and waving off the morning crew of the paparazzi. An article by Cyn Wrigley persuading the Chief of Police to get more men on the Oliver case since two thirds of the police department had been assigned to a drug bust in the south valley and the other third were playing silly buggers. It was also noted that Detective Temeke’s team were understaffed. All thanks go to Captain Rufus Fowler for issuing prompt press releases and keeping the public notified.

Rufus?
Was that a typo? Please tell me that was a typo, Temeke thought. He’d never known Fowler’s first name. Never bothered to ask.

Jarvis jabbed a stubby finger in Fowler’s arm. “I thought you said your name was Rayford.”

Fowler swatted that finger away and dismissed the comment. “They like me,” he said. There was a curl to his lips, but the smile was cold. “They trust me. I was born here. You know what they don’t like? Foreigners. Because there’s no loyalty. No history. My grandfather was Secretary of State to old Governor Mendez. Who are you Temeke? A nobody. From a nobody part of the world where nobody cares. And furthermore, I don’t care ...”

Here he was, Fowler the young bastard who was going to the top because of his influential relatives. Temeke stared past the carefully sculptured hair to the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes past nine. If he was lucky, he’d get a few smokes in before lunch. His phone vibrated on the desk; a text from Malin.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
, it said.
Sailors lost at sea. Someone shot a bird. Mean anything?

He tapped out the word
no
and
pick me up at 9:30. Hospital. Mayor.

Fowler stopped talking then, gave a frown and stared at Temeke through half-closed eyes. “Who is it?”

“Dry cleaners,” Temeke said, tilting the phone away from Fowler. “You were saying?”

“I was saying Cyn thinks you should stand down.”

If Fowler thought he’d got away with tipping off Cyn at the Journal just so he could promote himself, he had another thing coming. “Is your flaming brain on holiday? You think I don’t know about your seedy flirtation with Ms. Wrigley, not to mention her assistant? It only takes a phone call to correct her about who’s really in charge. I’m sure the people would love that vote of confidence. Women aren’t all fools, Fowler. Give them some credit.”

Fowler exchanged raised eyebrows and a pulled-down mouth with Jarvis. “You’ll never earn any respect, Temeke. Not in this state. It’ll take years for you to redeem yourself.”

Temeke stood, snapped his top drawer shut and locked it. He slipped the phone in his pocket and shrugged on his jacket. “You’d better watch your step, or you’ll be following me out of Albuquerque.”

That made Fowler glare and Jarvis wince. It was worth a picture. Temeke was fed up with detectives being at the bottom of the food chain. It was time for a change.

Outside the station a cold wind slashed his cheeks and the smell of ice was everywhere. He walked over to his car and poked a cigarette though the gap in his lips. Smoking did nothing to improve his temper and he filled his lungs with each drag, heart pounding even faster. Fowler had a bloody nerve and if he wasn’t careful Temeke would find a way to pay him back. 

“Where the hell are you, Marl?” he murmured, seeing a tiny patch of sunlight on the pavement.

At that moment a black Explorer crawled around the corner, driver’s window open, ponytail bobbing. “Thought you might need a ride, sir,” Malin said.

“Am I glad to see you.” He ground the cigarette with the heel of his shoe and slid into the passenger seat. “Fowler’s a bit grumpy today,” he warned, telling her about the headlines. “Apparently, we’re due for a transfer.”

“Hopefully, it’s Paris.” She pulled right onto Ellison and up the hill. “I could do with the culture.”

“You’re late.”

“Had a few calls to make.”

“Nothing serious?” he asked, sensing a stab of tension in the air.

She shook her head. Looked like someone had finally told her Santa wasn’t real. “And what’s all this guff about the Ancient Mariner?” he said. “Sailors lost at sea and someone shoots a bird?”

“It was an albatross, sir. Very bad luck.”

“Maybe they were hungry. Not much to eat at sea.”

“There’s fish.”

Temeke nodded. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “Why are you asking?”

“You’re the literary type. You read all kinds of poetry, plays, that kind of thing. Just thought it might mean something to you, that’s all.”

Temeke held his breath as they drove towards the hospital. He should have been happy. The sun was peeking through a bank of clouds and he was feeling warmer by the minute. It was just the silence he didn’t like, didn’t like her mood either. “Someone send you a book? A link?”

“A few lines of poetry,” she said, turning to look at him briefly. “Thought it was rather nice.”

He knew she was smiling to allay his suspicion, but she wasn’t doing a very good job. There was something in her tone that made his lips pucker. Something in that tight frown that made her look scared.