Nightzone (7 page)

“See, I want to show you the plan for
NightZone
, but up there, where it makes sense. The whole dream. It'll blow your socks off.”

Swimming the last bite around the platter, I sighed with contentment. “All right. Let the day begin.”

“You can leave your rig here if you want,” Waddell offered. “I have to come back to town anyway.”

I pushed myself out of the booth and slid two twenties under the edge of my plate, waving off his offer as he dug for his wallet. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let me follow you out. With the mess we have this morning, I never know what's coming up. I need my wheels.” I grinned. “My mobile office.”

“Hell of a retirement you've got going,” Waddell said. “I'll meet you at the gate.”

And that should have been simple enough.

Chapter Seven

State Highway 56 approached the village of Posadas from the southwest. It was heavily used by Posadas standards, carrying not only the rumble and clatter of local ranchers with their stock trailers, but traffic to and from Mexico and from southern Arizona. Snowbirds with enough spirit of adventure to pull their big RVs off the interstates used it, as did the burros who pulled used cars in tandem for sale in Mexico. And one way or another, a flood of illegal aliens used the highway, walking its shoulders, stuffed in vans or trucks, or driving their own well-worn piece of the American dream.

I turned south on Grande Avenue toward State 56, letting Miles Waddell cruise on ahead. I didn't need to eat his dust when, in twenty-six miles, we would turn off on County Road 14. But I didn't even make it out of town. I was still a quarter-mile north of the Posadas Inn and the interstate's overpass when I saw Waddell's brake lights flash, and then another light show of a different sort. A mammoth RV trundled northbound toward me, passing under the interstate with a sheriff's patrol unit glued so close to its back bumper that the county unit might have been a vehicle in tow.

Sergeant Jackie Taber, having already worked most of the night out at the crime scene, was starting her day shift by catching a speeding snowbird. By the time I passed McArthur Circle, the first street a long block north of the interchange, the RV had heaved across my path and into the Posadas Inn's parking lot, angling far off to one side. It halted beside one of the towering light poles. Taber followed in close formation, and as the RV came to a stop, pulled forward and to one side so she had a clear view of the RV's front door.

I glanced ahead to see Waddell's ranch truck enter the sweeping bend to State 56 far ahead, a burst of dark exhaust telling me that he had his foot in it. I was poking along, true to habit. As I came up on the parking lot, I looked across and saw that Jackie Taber had gotten out of her car and was moving around the driver's door. The door of the RV had opened, and I could see a figure on the top step, bare knees and shins just visible.

Body English is everything. Even at a quick glance, I could see the tension in Taber's body. Left hand extended in the universal “halt” gesture, right hand drifting back toward the butt of her service automatic, her knees had flexed as she turned. And sure enough, the figure in the doorway of the RV appeared to be holding a weapon of some sort. That's what I saw, and that's what I acted on.

Too late to turn into the parking lot's last entrance before the interstate interchange, I braked hard and cranked the SUV around to the left, executing a U-turn directly under the overpass. The turn continued, bringing me 270 degrees around to face the parking lot entrance. And there I had an unobstructed view of the huge, square ass-end of the RV, tinted windows revealing nothing inside. Ahead and off to my right was Jackie Taber, hand on gun and barking orders. The bulk of the RV hid the doorway from my view, and I swung right just wide enough that I could make out the figure standing there. Stopping well to the rear and just to the left of Taber's unit, I slammed the gear lever into Park.

I knew all the ways a civilian could get himself into trouble by arriving in the middle of a crime scene, running the risk of upsetting what might be a delicate balance established by the responding officer. Who knows what the mind-sets of those involved might be. At that point, I acted out of that zone that cops sometimes call “trained instinct.”

My Dodge Durango was bright red—not obviously a police vehicle, but who the hell knows these days. With an armed confrontation going on, I wasn't about to look the other way and cruise past. Nor could I just sit in the car and wait and see what transpired. The sheriff's department radio that was bolted under the dash was silent, the idiot light dark, and I didn't take the time to reach down to turn it on. No doubt Sergeant Taber had called in the stop, and even as I got out of the SUV, I saw her left hand snap up to the little microphone on her shoulder epaulet.

I had time to take two steps forward, putting me immediately beside the left front fender of my SUV. The figure in the stairwell of the RV shifted position, and I saw the long barrel of a gun swing down. Distinctly, I heard three words, barked out in command by Sergeant Taber.

“Put the gun…” and that's as far as she got.

The blast was incredibly loud and sharp, and Sergeant Taber disappeared from my view. As if acting entirely on its own, my right hand swept back and found my stubby magnum, nestled under my jacket. As the barrel of the assailant's gun swept toward me, I drew and fired. The man—now I could tell that's who it was—was in quartering view to me, still on the steps of the motor home. Even as I pulled the trigger the first time, he was starting to turn awkwardly. The recoil of the .357 was harsh if I thought about it, but during that episode, I never felt it. I continued to fire until I saw the assailant's shotgun clatter to the parking lot and he crashed onto the RV's steps, one leg angling crazily out the door.

Motion to my right became Jackie Taber, picking herself up with one hand on the bumper of her vehicle, the other holding her automatic pointed in the general direction of the RV. Still thinking on their own, one of my hands opened the cylinder of the Smith and Wesson and pumped out the five empties, and the other groped the Speed Loader out of my left jacket pocket. By the time I realized what I was doing, I'd advanced a step or two, and could see the man writhing on the steps of the RV, blood pouring down his Hawaiian shirt, across his snow-white Bermuda shorts, and onto the chrome of the RV.

He made no move toward the shotgun, and I closed the distance in a few strides.

“Oh, my God,” the man gurgled. There didn't appear to be another weapon within his reach. I chanced a quick glance to the right, and saw Jackie advancing, automatic extended. The swell of relief was palpable. She was up and efficient again. “Secure the shotgun, sir,” she barked at me, with no quaver, no hesitation, no gasping for breath. Without having to worry about her, my brain was free to do something constructive. I didn't want that gun—and I could see it was a fancy, long-barreled thing—to move an iota from where the assailant had dropped it. Once a crime scene is altered, there's no going back.

In the distance, I could hear two sirens, so I stepped to the shotgun that lay well out of the wounded man's reach and just stood there, looking up at the dark side windows of the RV above me. I saw no motion, no shadows. I heard no latches snapping open, no one crawling out a back window.

“Sir, try to hold still.” Taber's voice was still heavy with command, but now tinged with a little bit—a very little bit—of concern. I turned and saw that her uniform blouse—despite the nip in the February air, she hadn't been wearing a jacket—was pocked with a couple dozen pellet tears. On the left side of her jaw bone, a little pimple of blood beaded.

Her assailant moaned something, trying to shift position. “My hand…”

Well, sure enough, his right hand had seen better days. It had been gripping the wrist of the shotgun when one of my bullets blew his thumb off just above the base joint—and not a neat job, either. That didn't concern me as much as the mat of blood that was soaking the left side of his shirt just below the armpit, and another leak from his right hip. He moved a little, eyes trying to focus, and when he did, I saw a puddle of blood on the step behind his head.

Neither Jackie nor I was about to clump past him into the RV to rummage for clean towels. The EMTs would be on-site anyway soon enough—that plus the little matter of
securing
the RV. We didn't have a clue who might be inside, or what their intent might be.

“The ambulance will be here in a minute, sir. Just try to hold still.” I managed to sound concerned too, but my concern sure wasn't directed at him. With that threat neutralized, Sergeant Taber was headed up into the RV, gun leading the way.

“Tisha,” the man said clearly, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he sagged against the aluminum door frame, out for the count. His breathing was strong, and I saw no red fountains, so there wasn't much for me to do except stand there, revolver in hand, trying to slow my own pounding heart.

The thirty seconds was an eternity while Jackie was inside and before the ambulance appeared in a great cascade of winking lights. Farther up the street another vehicle bellowed, siren loud and piercing. Sure enough, Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman's Charger overtook the ambulance, and braked hard to swing into the motel parking lot.

I head Jackie's soft voice behind me as she appeared in the doorway.

“…CYF officer ASAP,” she was saying, and I saw her wipe the blood off her chin as she holstered her automatic and switched the phone to her other hand. “One juvenile, looks to be three or four.” And sure enough, the little flaxen-haired girl, eyes like saucers, stood in the small space behind the driver's seat, shielded by Jackie's husky figure. The deputy bent down and scooped the child up. Quick to recognize where safety was, the tiny arms locked around Jackie Taber's neck.

First impressions can be wonderful, I suppose. As the undersheriff swerved into the parking lot, and what did she see? An old man holding a .357 magnum, and his target collapsed on the steps of the RV, a Bermuda-shorted snowbird punched full of holes. Above them on the RV's steps, Sergeant Taber holding a child. I had no doubt that Estelle's analytical gaze pulled in all the details.

“The RV is clear,” Jackie announced.

I took a deep breath and holstered my revolver. Now that there
was
time for both a breath and some reflection, I knew that every step, every word, every action that came next would be scrutinized six ways from Sunday. As my first sheriff, the late Eduardo Salcido, had been fond of saying in tricky situations, “Make it right.”

Carrying the child, Jackie maneuvered down the RV's stairs past the leaking guy in Bermuda shorts, and met Estelle halfway. The ambulance stopped behind the undersheriff's sedan, and the two EMTs waited for some sort of cue. It was their scene now, but they needed to know that the bullets had stopped flying.

The sergeant and the undersheriff conferred for just a handful of seconds, and then Estelle was at the wounded man's side, beckoning the EMTs. She didn't say anything to me, knowing that I wasn't about to go anywhere. At that precise moment, what had happened…the
how
of it all…mattered not a bit. If the child was safe, that was number one. The rest of the team would work on saving the shooter's life.

Staying well out of the way, I watched the EMTs work, and felt a small—very small—surge of optimism. I could see that the head shot was a glancing gouge just above and behind the man's right ear. If he was lucky, the slug hadn't cracked his skull.

The wash of blood soaking his Hawaiian shirt came from a six-inch laceration where a hollow point had ploughed first across the flab of his upper left chest, then took a chunk out of his left biceps.

He awoke enough to emit a pathetic groan as they lifted him onto the gurney. One of the EMTs rigged IVs and took vitals while the other looked at the hip wound—probably the worst of the lot. It was a clean, straight-on puncture on the front upper hip well below the beltline, which meant that the slug most likely had wreaked havoc somewhere inside the old guy's bowels. No exit wound meant that slug had caromed around inside his pelvic girdle—a wound that could be fatal as easily as not.

A little white SUV pulled into the parking lot, and I recognized the pudgy figure of Jerri Jaramillo, one of the reps from Children, Youth, and Families. To arrive so quickly, she must have been just up the street. The little girl was our main concern, and Jackie Taber hadn't relinquished her hug on the child since carrying her off the RV. The transfer took only seconds, the child shielded from the curious, from the blood and violence.

I remained near the shotgun and watched as Estelle conferred with Taber, at one point examining the pellet wound on the sergeant's jaw. The recently arrived second team of EMTs did their own examination in the discreet cover of the ambulance, making sure that none of the other shotgun pellets had missed Taber's vest. I don't care how tough you are, when the bullets stop flying, there's a trauma that goes beyond the physical wounds. After some hushed consultation with her boss, Jackie Taber agreed to ride to the emergency room in the ambulance for a checkup.

Estelle Reyes-Guzman took a circuitous route back over to me. “One of the pellets glanced off her badge and cut her jaw. Just a nick.” The undersheriff looked hard at me again. “You're okay?”

“Absolutely fine.”

She looked down at the shotgun as if she were examining a recently axed rattlesnake. “He shot just once?”

“Yes. The expended shell casing is right there.” I nodded to my right, where the red hull lay on the asphalt. I wasn't about to blab on. She didn't need a gusher from me just then. When she wanted more information, she'd ask.

Taking two steps, she moved to the ejected shell casing, knelt, and cocked her head to read the label on the side of the shell. “Number eights.” By her demeanor, I never would have guessed that her night and day were well blended. She gave no sign of fatigue, or that we were in the middle of anything other than a serene mid-winter morning.

“And that explains a lot,” I said. “She took a charge square in the chest.” I thumped myself for emphasis. “Right on the ceramic plate. Bird shot isn't going to hurt her much, other than a hell of a thump.”

Estelle still knelt by the shell casing, looking over at the RV's now empty doorway. I could see her measuring, computing. “So Jackie was twenty-five feet or so from the RV when he fired.”

“About that. Directly in front of her vehicle.”

“Did she have time to give any sort of verbal commands?”

“Yes. ‘Put the gun down,' or some such. He fired without warning, and then started to turn toward me.”