Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (18 page)

She was waffling, I could tell by the softening in her stance. I went in for the kill. “Besides, you need to spend some time with Chino. I think you might have some ‘splaining to do.”

She deflated like yesterday’s balloon. “How the hell was I to know he was only twenty-six?”

“Exactly. That’s why people get to know each other before they jump before a preacher. Although, I would have thought that after living with a man for several weeks you’d at least know his age. What else don’t you know, for cryin’ out loud?”

“He looks older. And he’s a doctor.”

“So was Doogie Howser.”

“That was TV.”

“Jan, Chino has doctorates, he’s not a brain surgeon. Maybe he graduated from college when he was fifteen. Bottom line is, the age difference shouldn’t matter, but the way he was talking, it does to him. You need to stay here and get this thing resolved. Now.” I’ve always found that getting someone to focus on themselves gets the heat off my precious self. My redirect seemed to be working just fine.

“You’re right. I do. What a muck up.”

“Yes, for the moment things look a little grim, but you’ll work something out if you stay here. Meanwhile I can get back to my boat, head for the mainland, tie up
Raymond Johnson
, go to California, and the new project I’ve scheduled.”

Jan looked as though she would argue, then shrugged and we rejoined Chino, who was studying the map and putting coordinates into a handheld GPS he used in his panga.

“So, how long will this little trek across the Baja peninsula take me?” I asked.

“Oh, not so long.” Chino traced a line on the map we’d unfolded. “According to the GPS waypoints I entered, here,” he circled a spot on the map with a ballpoint pen, “here, and here, your driving time should be less than six hours. That is, of course, without a flat tire, a breakdown, or a major damage to the road from this year's hurricane damage. The roads are unmarked. You should always follow the deepest tire tracks. When you hit a fork, and are unsure which way to go, check the next GPS waypoint. Also, over the years, it has become customary to place a row of rocks in the road when a choice is to be made so that the driver will not wander off onto someone’s ranch, but the rule is not solid.

“From Lopez Mateos,” he ran his finger along a road, “one must backtrack, along the main paved road, then turn north here, toward La Purisima. This will take less than an hour, for it is asphalt, but then the pavement ends and the fun starts.”

He continued to calculate driving times, using a kilometer per hour figure of forty, or twenty-five miles per hour. According to his estimate, I could be in Mulege within a few hours of leaving the pavement, then, once back on Mex 1, it was only minutes to Santa Rosalia.

So far, so good. Searching my memory banks, I said, “I don’t recall seeing a military stop between Mulege and Santa Rosalia.”

“There has never been one, so far as I know.”

“Then that’s that.”

“All’s well that ends well, right?”

Okay, so there were still a couple of loose ends, like Chino’s grandma was still missing, and I had thugs from two different camps looking for me. Grams was on her own as far as I was concerned, so my agenda was to navigate a hot off-road truck over treacherous Baja back roads, find my boat, report a burned-up Budget, somehow get to Loreto to pick up Smith’s pickup from the
mecánico
, and then singlehand
Raymond Johnson
across the Sea of Cortez. First and foremost, however, I had to get out of Lopez Mateos before Dickless Richard found me.

Although the Toyota was equipped with a bank of lights with enough clout to light up the desert for a quarter of a mile, I had no intention of driving after dark. I still had a couple of hours before sunset to get on down the road, find a place to hide.

Chino rummaged through a storage locker in his cousin’s back yard, dragged out a sleeping bag and threw it into the truck bed. He also gathered some warm clothes, a flashlight, two gallon jugs of water, and topped off my tanks with jeri-canned gas.

“I believe you are ready to roll. However, you will need this.” He shoved his handheld Global Positioning System receiver into my hand.

I shoved it back. “No need. Let's load the coordinates into The Toyota’s GPS.”

“No, do not use the one in the truck. It might contain a tracking device. Many of these off-road vehicle GPS’s do, in case the trekkers get lost.”

“Good thinking, Chino, you’re a rock. Please, give my heartfelt thanks to all the Comachos and Yees for their help, as well. ”

I gave him and Jan a hug, then scratched Trouble’s neck feathers through his cage. I’d miss them all, especially my fine feathered friend, but Trouble would be better off living with Chino and Jan. I double-checked the little escape artist’s cage lock, and set off into Hell.

Next time, I think I’ll try something simple. Like bungee jumping off the Golden Gate bridge.

Chapter 21

Did I mention that my idea of camping out is a hotel without twenty-four hour room service?

I found a side road and drove the Toyota behind the cover of a little hill just as the sun set and—there is a God—an enormous full moon rose.

I stepped from the truck to stretch, and was hit by such a profound silence that a rush of fear coursed through me. Any idea I had of sleeping in the truck bed was chased away by my own fear of being so alone, so…vulnerable.

Heart thumping, I grabbed the sleeping bag from the truck bed, jumped back inside and slammed the door lock button down. Still frightened to the point of almost panic, I considered continuing the drive, maybe finding a hotel room at La Purisima. If they had one. Which they probably didn’t, but it was my experience that Mexicans generally let you park anywhere. I could park in front of the police station. If they had one.

Indecision finally calmed me. I climbed into the jump seat in a futile attempt to find a place to sleep, but it was well nigh impossible. Even moving from the front to the back required a contortion more likely found at the Cirque de Soliel.

Fearful of opening a door to change places the easy way, and sweating from effort and residual fright, I maneuvered myself into the passenger seat and found a lever that tilted the seat back to almost horizontal. The only thing preventing it from going flat out was the jump seat in the rear, so I raised it, et voila, I had a bed. Within minutes, though, a chill settled into my bones though my damp clothes and I knew, despite my deep fatigue, that I had to fight my way into that moldy old sleeping bag. Using what I was sure were my last reserves, and trying not to think what might have been using that bag for a home back in Chino’s shed, I struggled in, zipped it up and, against all odds, fell into a deep sleep.

My own snoring woke me up sometime in the wee hours. The moon had traversed three quarters across the sky, which told me I’d slept for quite a few hours. Stiff from sleeping in one position for so long, I tried to sit up, but snored again.

Snored? No, I was awake, so what was that sound?

I peered out the window and saw nothing but a desert lit by moonshine bright enough to read by, but with colors faded to an almost uniform gray. Green cactus and brown rocks seemed to blend, only discernable by their shadows and shapes. I rolled down the window and listened, but quickly rolled it back up when I heard a snuffling sound, then saw something move. Several somethings.

Shocked, I screamed, and slammed my hand down on the door lock, then remembered they were already secure. Every hair on my body was standing on end as I reached over, turned on the key and hit the desert lights.

The coyotes, startled by the suddenly lit desert, scampered back a bit, but then stopped and stared with evil yellow eyes.

The pack, probably thirty of them, surrounded the Toyota. A frisson of unreasonable fear ran through me. Unreasonable, because what could a few coyotes do to me? I was inside a vehicle, doors locked, windows up. Coyotes slink and hide, they do not break windows and gnaw one’s bones.

One of them, however, didn’t believe his own PR.

Advancing on stiff legs into the circle of light, he snarled, walked insolently to the truck, and lifted his leg.

I hit the stereo button, and the pissing contest was over in an instant.

Tucking tail and yelping away into the night, he left a trail of pee in his wake.

My woofers are bigger than his woofers.

I rolled down the window and let loose with a primal howl, reveling in my triumph, even if it was over some wretched desert creature. From somewhere far off, the howl was returned, no doubt a hosanna for Hetta, Queen of the Desert, from one of her subjects.

Flushed with victory, and with only Freddie Fender singing "Hey Baby Que Paso" for company, I gave up any idea of more sleep and set out to single-handedly conquer the Sonoran desert. Okay, so I had a truck that could probably climb Mount Everest, a GPS, and a pile of burritos to aide my progress, but I was still on my own. I turned up Freddie.

Nacho, as well as being handsome in a criminal sort of way, had a great music selection.

La Purisima at dawn's first hint is quiet to the point of dead.

I killed the music to keep it that way.

With the exception of a few dog barks, a donkey bray and a rooster crow or two, I was the noisiest thing in town, even with the stereo turned off. The biggest surprise about this desert town was its placidly flowing river flanked by reeds, palm trees and orchards. Downtown consisted of several Colonial style buildings, white, square, and squat, lining a semi-paved main street.

Typical of   Mexican architecture in many small Baja pueblos, the buildings’ doors open onto the street, with only a narrow sidewalk serving as a curb. Quaint and quiet, La Purisima was the kind of place I’d like to further explore, but with the Hounds of Hell on my tail, I thought it best to boogie on through.

My heart skipped a little beat when I spotted a dusty black and white on the edge of town, but to my relief, it was not only unoccupied, it had probably quit running sometime around 1979. As far as I knew, except for the dog that gave me a half-hearted bark or two, I passed through the village unnoticed, which is a miracle considering I drove a canary yellow Toyota boasting straight pipes with the decibel level just under that of a C-5 transport plane on takeoff.

I had, between yesterday and today, mastered the rhythm of the Toyota’s gears, so when the pavement ran out as I left La Purisima, dumping me onto a two-track dirt road, I had a handle on the vehicle and was enjoying the ride. The slow ride. Chino figured it would take me only a few hours to make my way to the other side of the Baja Peninsula, barring mechanical problems, banditos, or rolling over in the desert and ending up as a mummy. I pushed such pleasant thoughts aside and concentrated on the road, which wasn’t all that bad at slow speeds. I was averaging about five miles an hour. Every time I was emboldened to go faster, I’d hit a ravine, gravel, a rock, or something that scared the speed right out of me.

Several hours, and only a few miles, out of La Purisima, I crested a ridge and the low morning sun blinded me to the point of jamming my foot down on the brake pedal.

Creeping along even slower than usual, trying to make sure I didn’t drive off the so-called road, I was suddenly surrounded by a deafening cadre of motorcycles—dirt bikes, actually. Blinded further by choking dust as they shot past me, I came to a full stop and pulled my tee shirt collar up over my nose and mouth. Several more bikes roared by and, ticked off, I shot them a single digit complaint. I was waiting for the dust to settle when one of the bikers stopped, turned around, and headed straight for me. Do I never learn?

My mind raced. Options? Put old yeller in gear and run him down like a dog, or maybe smile and explain that a raised finger in my native country of Lower Slobovia is a gesture of affection, or…I was out of ideas.

The biker blocked the road in front of me, climbed off his bike and sauntered my way. With his helmet facemask on, I couldn’t read his expression, but the walk had a decidedly unfriendly gait to it. Either that, or he had a major wedgie.

I waggled my fingers feebly and pasted a stupid grin on my face. Then, over my motor noise, I realized the biker was trying to talk to me. I cut the engine. Blessed desert quiet descended, with only the crunch of boots to break the silence. Well, that and my hammering heart.

“Hi,” I said, forgetting I was Lower Slobovian.

“Hi, yourself.” The voice was muffled as the biker leaned over and began removing his helmet. A tumble of shiny black curls covered his face, then he tossed his head. He was a she. “You got trouble?”

Nope, he’s back in Lopez Mateos
. “I’m fine. Sun hit me in the eyes. I didn’t hear you guys behind me, so you gave me a fright.”

She grinned. “So I noticed. You American?”

“Yep. You?”

“Yeh. California. You?”

“Texan. I’m Hetta Coffey.”

She stuck out a gloved hand. “Victoria Antoinette. So, what are you doin’ out here by yourself?”