Big Maria (35 page)

Harry didn’t waste any time. He dove into the open door of the closest Hummer and scrambled over the passenger seat, feeling for the keys in the ignition. No such luck. He looked back, assuming Ricky had followed, but the kid was nowhere to be seen.

He frantically dug around the car for keys or weapons, but found only a pack of gum and some bottles of water.

Through the open door and pouring rain, Harry watched the soldiers slowly lower their weapons. He could just make out the looks of amazement on each of their faces. The product of their participation in the absolute destruction of a human being. Military training and television did little to prepare one for an honest-to-God slaughter. Slowly the shock wore off.

“Just as screwed,” Harry said, watching the men turn toward him. Two of the soldiers pointed, and the others moved toward the Humvee, lifting their weapons to their shoulders.

That’s when their world went sideways. Harry saw the strange darkness grow behind the soldiers, but he didn’t know what it meant. It was a looming darkness that got darker and bigger and louder as it grew nearer.

Then it happened.

A wall of water crashed against the side of the Hummer, slamming the passenger door closed behind Harry with its force and moving the vehicle sideways across the mud. Harry unconsciously put on his seat belt.

When rain in the desert falls too quickly and the ground has no time to absorb it, a flash flood is created. The position of the Humvees was essentially at the mouth of the temporary river, where all the water from the mountains flowed onto the plain.

Harry screamed to scream, not caring that no one could hear.

The soldiers immediately disappeared in the rising force of the flash flood, some sucked under, others swept into the distance along the brown foam. A leg, a hand, a head bobbed briefly, but soon only molten mud and thrashing water remained.

The Humvee continued to be pushed along at the whim of the rushing water.

Harry clutched the steering wheel, knowing that all he could do was ride the flood. The Humvee tilted, picking up speed in the accelerating current. The roar of the world was deafening. Like he was inside a washing machine or in the middle of a boiling ocean.

Harry watched in amazement out the mud-spattered windshield at the two other Humvees on their sides, moving slowly ahead of him. Insanity’s regatta. The soldiers were gone, victims of nature. Finally it occurred to him that Ricky was out there, too. He hadn’t seen the kid since right before Cooker got blasted.

Poor kid, Harry thought. He just wanted to help his family. He was the best of the three men. But the torrent wasn’t there
to punish people, it just was. A raging river was apathetic to the moral fiber of any person in its path.

Harry let his body relax as much as he could. He remembered reading somewhere that the best thing to do in a car accident was to let your body go slack. Tightening up caused more injuries. Panicking would do him little good. He took huge breaths whenever he took in air, just in case the water got high enough to get inside or the Humvee capsized.

By the time it was all over, Harry would only remember the event as an idea, the individual seconds so traumatic and chaotic that they were beyond concrete memories. He didn’t know how long the water had carried him or how far, he only knew that it did. And that he had lived through it.

Harry ended up at the muddy edge of the flood plain that had formed in the small valley. The rain had stopped and the water had receded or sunk into the ground, leaving thick black mud. The Humvee had sunk deep enough to block the doors.

He was alone and cold and wet. But when he finally had a chance to evaluate his situation, he saw the bag of gold. He had held on to it when he had jumped into the Humvee. He had instinctively kept his grip on the bag, the drawstring wrapping itself between his fingers. For all the tragedy and chaos, he had survived with at least some part of the reward intact.

Harry climbed out of the driver’s window and sank knee-deep into the muck as he tried to take his first step. He slogged forward as best he could.

He couldn’t really describe his mood as happy. Not with Ricky and Frank dead. He couldn’t tell you if it had all been worth it.

Harry scanned the horizon, nothing but desert and mud. The light of dusk gave the landscape an orange glow. He kept on through the mud, walking in the direction of the setting sun. Heading west. Heading home.

H
arry sat in his car outside of the modest white stucco house. He watched the little girl ride the brightly colored plastic toy tractor around the brown lawn. The girl’s name was Rosie. He knew that. Ricky had said it enough times. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of Ricky’s wife. Some Mex name, but he couldn’t come up with it.

He sat in the hot car for twenty minutes. He knew he was stalling.

The
Imperial Valley Press
had run the story about the tragic flash flood inside the US Army Proving Ground. It had shown pictures of the seven soldiers who had died. They all got hero’s funerals. They hadn’t found any other bodies, but they hadn’t been looking.

Harry knew it was a straight-up miracle that he was alive. Not just surviving the flood, but the trek home, the whole damn trip. Covered in mud and broken by physical exertion, he had walked without pause back to the Colorado River. It was another five hours in the dark until he found the boat. That had been three days ago. Three days during which he had done little more than sleep.

Harry didn’t look forward to informing Ricky’s lady that the kid was dead, but that was one lie he couldn’t tell. The truth was the only way to deliver her share.

He took a swig of bourbon from his flask, popped a breath mint in his mouth, and got out of the car. He ambled slowly to the front door, his leg still hurting with what was probably a permanent
limp. The little girl stopped the tractor and watched him. He gave her a wink. She gave him a smile.

Luckily, there were no steps, the front door at ground level. He knocked, then took a step back and waited. The door opened. Ricky’s wife stood in the doorway. Harry wished he could remember her name. He gave her a grin, realizing that he had never noticed how good-looking a lady she was. Good for the kid.

“Hello, ma’am. I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Harry Schmittberger. We never really met, but I lived in Desert Vista in Blythe, where you used to stay. People used to call me Shitburger. That’s how you’d probably know me. Shitburger.” The name still stung.

“That’s awful. People can be so cruel with their names,” she said.

“I’m thinking about changing my last name. Been feeling like a different person.”

“How can I help you?”

“This is yours,” Harry said.

He held out a small metal box that he had found at the Goodwill in Blythe. It was decorated with a bird and some flowers, but mainly he got it because the lid was good and tight.

“What is it?”

“Something that belonged to your husband. We had a business arrangement. That’s his share. Actually, it’s more than his share, but he earned every bit of it. You can use it better than me. It’s a long story. Details aren’t important, but you should know that everything Ricky did, he did for you and your little girl. He went through hell, but I ain’t never seen a man so devoted to people he cared for. He inspired me to look for what he had.”

“Nice of you to say, but—”

“Please take the box, ma’am.” The ache in his arms told Harry that he was still extending the box out to her. “It’s a new car, your kid’s college fund, more. It’s what Ricky gave everything for. You have to take it.”

“If it’s Ricky’s, you should give it to Ricky. He would—”

Harry didn’t let her finish. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘give it to Ricky’?”

“Unless you’re in a hurry.”

“He’s here?” Harry found himself walking into the house past her, craning his neck toward the back rooms. She didn’t try to stop him.

“He’s in the back. Sleeping.”

“Ricky’s alive? He’s here and alive?”

“Maybe you should tell...” But she stopped midsentence when she saw Harry was crying. Smiling, laughing, and crying. Harry dropped to one knee, a hand on the armrest of the nearest chair.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Harry nodded his head, and then looked up through wet, red eyes. “Can I see him?”

R
icky woke from the sound of the bedroom door opening. He thought he was still dreaming when he saw Harry standing in the doorway wiping at his face. It had to be a dream, because Harry was dead. He had died in the flash flood. Ricky sat up and blinked himself awake, but Harry still stood there.

“Is that really you?” Ricky said.

“I was going to ask the same thing. I thought you was dead.”

“Far as I knew, you were the dead one.”

“Guess we’re just two zombies.”

“How?”

Harry gave him the rundown. The flood, the Humvee, the wild ride, and the hike back. Truth really was stupider than fiction.

When Harry was finished, he asked, “I had the Hummer to protect me. How did you get out?”

“Don’t know. Soldiers opened fire and I took off. I was running and what I figure must have been the first wave of water smacked me hard in the back. Knocked me out cold. Don’t know how long, but not long, I don’t think. I woke up wedged between
some rocks just above the waterline. Best I could figure it, the water swept me up and brought me to this small patch of higher ground. When the water went down, I looked for you. No such luck, obviously. You’ll never believe what happened next.”

“I’m at the point if you say a UFO picked you up, I’d believe it.”

“Not far from the truth. Not a UFO though. A tank. And who was driving? The Go Go Gophers, Frank’s grandsons. With their scary mother.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“That’s why that little biker was out in the desert. The one they shot up. Jesus, that was horrible. They followed us, looking for Frank. But they got lost, and somehow come across some Sweden soldiers in a tank. Seems these two Swedens had a couple of Mexican hookers with them, so they weren’t exactly ready to turn anyone in. They gave us a ride to the road. The inside of that tank was cool, all sorts of switches and stuff.”

“Did you tell them about Frank?”

“Had to. Soon as the mother knew who I was, she threw me against the side of the tank. Strong, lots of upper-body strength. She held me there, screaming, ‘Where’s my father?’ in my face. I was scared, I’ll tell you. Just blurted out, ‘He’s dead.’ She looked at me for a long time. I told her that Frank had passed away in his sleep. Craziest thing, she nodded and got real calm. Said something like, ‘Then it’s time to go home,’ and that was that.”

Harry shrugged. Nothing sounded crazy to him anymore.

“In fact,” Ricky said, “it wasn’t until I told Frank’s grandsons that I owed them for their burros that they showed any reaction. I’ve never seen two men cry harder.”

“Been thinking about that myself,” Harry said. “I made some calls. Got a guy that’s going to sell me a couple of donkey puppies to give them. Figure we can’t bring ’em back theirs, but we can do that much.”

Ricky said, “If you thought I was dead, what made you come by here?”

“Came by to drop off your share.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you known me long enough to know that I always got another trick up my pant leg? I keep it next to my penis. I never let go of that bag of gold.”

Harry set the metal box on the edge of the bed next to Ricky. He opened it. Inside was the leather bag.

“That’s most of it. For you and your family. Put some aside to buy the donkeys, and I’m going to give some to Frank’s people. I only kept a little for myself.”

Ricky laughed.

Harry continued. “More I thought about it, the less I could think to spend it on. I didn’t want the gold nearly as much as I needed to find it. You got important stuff. Real stuff. Use that money smart. In fact, let the lady spend it, instead of you.”

Ricky kept laughing, almost uncontrollably.

Harry chuckled. “It’s not that funny.”

Ricky reached under his pillow and pulled out another leather bag, now inside of a gallon Ziploc freezer bag. “There were four bags in the mine. This one was in my coat.”

“Holy mother,” Harry said.

Just then, Rosie ran into the room and climbed onto the bed, hugging her father.

“Who’s he?” Rosie asked, pointing at Harry.

“This is your Uncle Harry. He’s family.”

Rosie held her hand out formally to shake. “My name is Rosie.”

“It’s nice to meet to you.” Harry took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. She shook his hand up and down in an exaggerated manner. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Rosie?”

“I’m not never going to grow up,” she said.

“Good for you, kid,” Harry said.

F
irst off, I would like to thank everyone at Thomas & Mercer and Amazon Publishing for all their hard work on the book. Specifically, I’d like to thank Jacque Ben-Zekry and Andy Bartlett. You two made the process easy.

Huge thanks to Michael Batty—not only a great drinking buddy and one hell of a writer, but one of the best first readers on the planet. Ain’t no one I’d rather talk story with over a few beers. (Michael writes as Bart Lessard. Check his stuff out.)

The acknowledgments for my first novel were written so early on that I didn’t have an opportunity to express my gratitude to certain people. A big thanks to the following authors, who didn’t know me from Adam but agreed to read
Dove Season
: Ray Banks, Bill Cameron, Sean Doolittle, Craig Johnson, and Charlie Stella. All class acts.

I’d also like to thank all of the independent bookstores that stocked
Dove Season
(and that I hope are carrying this book), especially my local mystery bookstore, Murder by the Book, in Portland, Oregon. They didn’t have to, and they did, and that’s a big deal to me.

Finally, thank you to my beautiful and talented wife, Roxanne. You might not be able to tell through all the swearing and violence in my books, but everything I write is a love letter to you. I would be lost without you.