Suicide Season (37 page)
Authors: Rex Burns
“It is not strange. Every now and then someone disappears. Especially if they are undocumented. Especially if immigration finds out about them.”
“You think that’s what happened? Immigration got him?”
“It happens all the time. I told you, I get my rent in advance.”
“Have any other people recently disappeared from your apartment house?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“But I heard about a woman a month or so ago. I heard you were asking the neighbors about her.”
Mrs. Chiquichano’s face hardened into something like a Mayan stone carving, and her eyes were equally expressive. “I said no, Mr. Kirk. Good-bye.”
“Do you think immigration got her, too?”
The door closed firmly. The woman polishing the Cadillac stopped again to silently watch me walk back to my car. In the rearview mirror, I could see her stare after me as I drove away.
Bunch steered the Bronco onto the shoulder of the dirt road and turned off the lights. We sat for a few minutes to let our eyes adjust to the black of empty fields, and gradually we could see that the blackness wasn’t quite so absolute. To the west, where Boulder lay against the foothills, a vague glow gave dim silhouette to the nearest rise of earth. Behind us, over Denver, the sky was even lighter. And to the north a string of strobe lights periodically made a tall exclamation point in the night.
“How high you think that radio tower is?” Bunch asked.
I squinted at the blue-white flash of lights. “Oh, just a rough guess: nine hundred ninety-eight feet, three and a quarter inches.”
Bunch looked at me.
“I read up on it when I was looking for surveillance sites—it’s some kind of experimental tower for the Bureau of Standards. Just under a thousand feet high.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“They bounce radio waves off it from Boulder, for one thing. And there’s a platform at the top to study air pollution patterns that come up the I-25 corridor.”
“You wanted that for surveillance? Man, I definitely would not go to the top of that thing!”
I hoisted the monopod for the telephoto and the battery pack for the night scanner. “They wouldn’t let us anyway. And it’s pretty secure at night—I checked it out. So we’re stuck on the ground.”
“Good.” Bunch nodded. “A quick trip in, a few shots, a quiet sneak out. That’s the civilized way.”
We had parked on a section road that, we estimated from the crisp new Geological Survey map, was directly behind the old Wilcox farm and about a mile distant. Bunch took our bearings from an engineer’s directional compass, and we crawled between strands of barbed wire and started across the weedy prairie. What had looked smoothly rolling during the day was uneven and rough in the dark, and despite the heavy leather of my hiking boots, I could feel the occasional jab of cactus spines against my ankles. A narrow but deep gully cut a black line at the base of the first hill, and we wandered along its lip in the dark searching for handholds to scale down the bank. Somewhere ahead a coyote gave a quavering bark, and off to the north beyond the flashing tower another answered, three quick yips and a long, dying howl. Once, we stumbled across some bird’s nest and the night exploded into startled screeches and a drumming of frantic wings. In the distance down the ravine, a rabbit squealed its life away as an owl or coyote or fox found its supper.
“Should be up here not too far,” I said.
Bunch wiped the sweat from his eyes and lifted his cap to welcome the night breeze that brushed across the rise of land. “I don’t see any lights yet.”
“Won’t, until we’re almost there. It’s in a little valley and surrounded by trees.”
“Just one dog?”
“That’s all I saw.”
“I hate dogs.”
We crossed the next low ridge and stumbled downhill and then began climbing again. From the top, I could see the wink of house lights clustered like a handful of sparks in the dark below, and beside me Bunch grunted in satisfaction. “I was beginning to doubt you, Dev.”
I had been wondering too; the dark makes time and space different. “That’s damned insulting, Bunch. In fact, it hurts deeply.”
“Sorry about that.” He stood spraddle-legged. “Wait a minute before we move in—got to bleed the old lizard.” I heard the splash of urine against the hard earth. “Okay—ready for action.”
We moved cautiously down the slope, worried not about being seen but about being heard by the German shepherd, which no doubt cruised the farm when it grew cool enough to move around. Easing to within thirty yards of the farmhouse, I set up the monopod and camera, and Bunch plugged the battery pack into the infrared scanning device. Through the scope, objects came out of the darkness as pale green silhouettes—a cluster of motorcycles parked under a tree, the same pickup I’d seen earlier, the sides of the house with its illuminated windows and doors like fuzzy black squares in the green. Bunch adjusted the telephoto lens and shot a few pictures of the vehicles and their license plates; then, slowly, we moved the awkward equipment closer to look for people.
“See that dog anywhere?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
The farmyard was level and packed and free of weeds and rocks. The remnants of horse smell drifted out of the barn on the mild breeze, and overhead the dry clatter of cottonwood leaves sounded like the patter of a light rain. From the farmhouse came the deep pulse of a stereo, and an occasional figure moved past the stubby, unshaded windows that ended just above ground level.
“See Taylor?”
“Can’t see much of anybody yet.”
“Maybe the dog’s inside.”
“Just keep that can of dog repellent handy,” I said.
A spring creaked and the back door slapped as a female figure came up to ground level to toss something from a basin into the dirt behind the house, her gestures a ragged movement of blurry green in the scope. Then the door creaked and slapped again. Bunch and I, camera ready, eased up to the house through a pale blue glow thrown by the mercury vapor light high on its pole. Crawling to the window ledge, I shot a quick series of pictures of the room, catching a bearded man sprawled on a couch and staring numbly at the flicker of television. Another, whose beard was cropped close to his face, tilted a beer can. In the background, a woman with stringy hair wearing a loose Mother Hubbard dress hauled a baby across the room on her hip and said something to one of the men, who might have been Taylor. Unfortunately, the photograph would also show that he wasn’t moving and actively able.
“Shit, Dev, look out!”
Behind me, with a single deep bark, the German shepherd bounded from the darkness around the barn and raced through the steely gleam of the farm light. I ran from the window and sprinted hard toward Bunch, who threw a stick at the dog and then sprayed a cloud of repellent toward its open mouth. I heard a voice shout something, and a door banged open to the sound of running boots.
“This way, Dev.”
I dashed toward Bunch’s voice, the dog barking crazily now and whining and trying to run after me even as it stumbled to rub its eyes and muzzle and writhe in the dirt. Behind its contorted shadow, a smaller one zipped fast along the ground, legs blurred with speed.
“Watch it, Bunch!”
“Oh, shit—” He held the spray can out behind him as he ran, knees lifting high to pull his legs away from the almost silent lunge of jaws. “Oh God, I hate dogs!”
I grabbed the monopod and night scope and raced up the ridge. Bunch labored behind with the power pack and cameras. The can sputtered into an empty hiss, and he swore and threw it hard at the feinting shadow at his heels and swung the battery case by its strap, trying to hit the dog. From the porch of the farmhouse, the heavy boom of a shotgun spurted flame our way, and I heard something angry whistle overhead. I ducked and plunged across the ridge and then down and up the gully on the other side, scarcely aware that Bunch was cursing and struggling after me.
On the other side, I paused and saw him dragging one leg as he ran. From that leg hung a small form almost horizontal to the ground, flopping with each long stride.
“Bunch, you have a passenger!”
“Laugh, damn you, Kirk! Just keep laughing, goddamn you!”
“Kick him loose.”
“I can’t—it’s a pit bull!”
“Hold it, Bunch—hold up.” I kicked the dog hard in its ribs, and it coughed twice and chewed deeper.
“Owww! Quit it—you’re making him mad!”
“Hold still!” Jamming the leg of the monopod at the back of its jaws, I twisted the animal’s mouth open, and Bunch yanked his leg away. The dog growled and swung after me, the teeth a rip of white against the black earth.
“Bunch, where the hell are you going?”
“I ain’t staying here!”
He was gone, leaving me to back away from the snarling dog, which sprayed saliva and blood as it rushed to get past the sharp monopod leg and make acquaintance with my own. “Bunch!” I jabbed at the dog’s chest and it yelped, pulling back, and I charged after it. The animal turned into the dark and I did too, running under the weight of the equipment and hearing a growling breath circle around me. Wheeling once more, I held the dog at bay as I stumbled backward and dueled with its teeth. “Bunch, you son of a bitch, help me with the goddamn fence!”
“Nobody helped me.”
“I’ll dump this crap. So help me God, I’ll leave all this stuff!”
In the distance behind one of the long, dark ridges, I heard the snarl of motorcycles like hornets swarming from a nest. Bunch pulled the Bronco down into the ditch and up close to the fence and leaned out the window to grab the gear.
“Not the monopod—not yet!”
“Christ, I hate dogs.”
I jumped on the aluminum running board and made a last savage jab at the rabid-looking beast, feeling the metal leg hit something that resulted in a very satisfying yelp. “Go—goddamn!”
He did, the vehicle rocking up on one side as he floored the gas and surged across the ditch and onto the gravel road. Behind, blinded by dust and falling farther and farther back into hazy darkness, the pit bull tried for one last bite of me or the tire or anything else it could sink those jaws into.
“Stop a minute, Bunch! Let me get in—hold up, goddamn it!”
He slammed on the brakes and I scrambled in, tossing equipment and looking back for the snap of teeth. “Okay—go!”
“Did you get the battery pack?”
“No—you had it.”
“I put it on the hood. Damn thing must have fallen off.”
A line of bobbing headlights crested a ridge in the black far behind us and dropped out of sight. “Can’t go back, Bunch. Here come the boys.”
“Shit.” He lurched the Bronco forward, and we drove without lights and peered through the dark for the next section road that would lead back toward I-25.
“That goddamn dog still chasing us?” Bunch used the gears rather than the brakes to slow for the hard turn.
“Yes,” I said without looking. I didn’t have to look.
“Dogs!” He reached down and groped around at something below the dash.
“Will you watch the road, Bunch! You’re doing sixty miles an hour without lights!”
“I’m watching. My goddamn leg’s chewed halfway to the bone and hurts like a bastard.”
“I hope the dog wasn’t rabid.”
“He wasn’t. Just high on crack. Damn, that hurts. Goddamn dog bites really hurt.”
We scratched from the gravel onto pavement, and Bunch flicked on the headlights and stepped harder on the gas. At the next intersection, we turned onto a county highway and slowed to blend with the occasional car or pickup truck. A few minutes later, a pair of motorcycles came up fast, and we watched in the rearview mirrors as they rode beside each car for a few seconds to check it out and then speeded up to the next.
“Duck down—they’re looking for two people.”
I slid into the darkness beneath the dash, my knees tight against my chest. The rattle of engines pulled up to the driver’s side and hung there for a long time. I saw Bunch glance toward them, and his hand hovered over the Python Magnum slung in its holster riveted beside the steering column. Then the engines revved and the bikes pulled away.
“Two of them,” he said. “They split up to go both ways on the highway.”
“You’re getting blood all over the floor mats.”
“Like to have that dog’s guts all over the mats.” He muttered something else.
“What?”
“I said it’s too bad about the battery pack.”
“I’m not going to complain about the cost, Bunch.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What’s that?”
“It has our name on it.”
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1987 by Rex Raoul Stephen Sehler Burns
cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4532-4801-0
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
