The Searcher (31 page)

C
APTAIN
A
NDREWS STOOD AT THE RED-PAINTED LINE OF THE CITY LIMITS,
looking out at the blackened desert growing darker in the evening light.

Behind him his men were busy securing the area and taking up positions in the buildings by the road and in the old miners' shacks that still stood. They all knew who the target was and the job they were here to do and the mood was focused and sharp and combat ready. They were setting up for an ambush, but they could stage a defense just as easily if that was required.

There were thirty-eight men in all, each armed with an AR-15 tactical carbine assault rifle with Trijicon 3 Dot tritium green night sight. There were two SDMs—squad-designated marksmen teams: two shooters, two spotters—with long-barreled M6A2s already in position, one by the side of the billboard, one in the gas station, both covering the road. No one was going to come down this highway without being lit up, and this was the road they would be coming in on. He knew that for a fact.

“You got a number for the crash investigators?” Andrews asked Morgan. “No need for them to get caught up in this.”

Morgan found the number of the NTSB coordinator on his phone and dialed it. When it started ringing, he handed it to Andrews.

“This is Captain Andrews, 27th DEA tactical arms unit,” he said when someone answered. “We have intel of a high-value target inbound to the town of Redemption, undoubtedly armed, possibly hostile. We have taken up defensive positions along the city-limit line and can see your work lights. For your own safety, I need you to pack up your team and ship out as fast as you can before they get here.”

Way out in the desert, Morgan saw the work lights blink off. A couple of minutes later, a Jeep and a van started heading back to town over the heat-deformed road.

Andrews raised his field glasses and lensed the desert again.

“Anything?” Morgan said.

“Not yet. Should be good for another half hour, I'd say.”

Morgan glanced back at the town. “In that case, I got a small problem maybe you could help me with.”

Andrews finished his sweep of the desert. “What problem?”

“Nothing a small team of your men can't help me fix. I got a fugitive I need to bring in.”

“You know where he's at?”

“Yeah,” Morgan nodded. “I got a pretty good idea.”

T
HE TIN BOX WAS BURIED ABOUT A FOOT BELOWGROUND, RIGHT UP AGAINST
the mesquite pole. Solomon's fingers scraped across the smooth surface of it and he dug down the sides, trying to pull it up and out of the hole, but the earth had been baked hard again in the short time it must have been here.

“Could you find me a stone or a stick?” he asked, and the ramada went dark as Holly removed the glow from her phone and used it to search around outside. It was full dark now with no moon yet to light up the night.

Solomon continued to dig in the dark, feeling around the tin with his fingers, until Holly returned with the light and a stick she had found in one of the fire pits. He used it to scrape the dirt from around the edges, loosening the earth until he could hook his fingers underneath and tug it free.

He laid it on the ground and brushed loose dirt from its surface. It had once contained shortbread but the rust-pitted surface suggested that it had been underground for a while, longer than a week. Solomon prized the lid off and they both leaned over to look inside.

It was filled with folded sheets of paper. Solomon took them out and saw other items below that were mottled with age and had likely been there as long as the tin had been buried. There was a small stack of baseball cards held together with a rubber band that had almost perished, a pocketknife that had rusted shut, and a hand-drawn map showing a rough chart of the campsite, an
X
marking where the tin had been. “Lost Cassidy Riches” was written across the top in childish handwriting.

“Seems your husband's interest in the Cassidy legend started young,” Solomon said.

He placed the tin on the ground and unfolded the pages that had been on top. There were two folded sets of documents and Solomon opened the larger one first then held them under the light of Holly's phone to read them.

“They're not financial,” Holly said.

Solomon shook his head. “It's a chemical analysis of groundwater samples taken from around the town.” He flicked through all five pages of it. “It recommends immediate discontinuation of all mine works and a major program of remedial water treatment to remove certain harmful reagents from the groundwater.” He turned to the last page where the chemicals were listed. “This report is dated almost a year ago, but Morgan said the mine was still producing.”

Holly shook her head. “I don't think it is. Whenever Jim talked about the town finances, he never mentioned it as a source of income.”

Solomon nodded. “I walked past earlier and the place seemed abandoned.”

“So if they shut down the mine like this report recommended, why pretend they didn't?”

“And why would your husband hide this document?”

Holly turned to him. “You think this was what they were after when they trashed my house?”

“Maybe. Let's see what else is here.” He picked up the second piece of paper and unfolded it. It was a photocopy of an architect's drawing outlining the footprint of the church. He spread it flat, looked at what was on it, and felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

The elevation revealed shapes in the building's design that had not been apparent at ground level. It showed the traditional cross-shaped foundation, but that wasn't what had drawn Solomon's attention. The plinth the altar cross stood upon was outlined in the drawings too. It was an
I
, the exact same shape and size as the mark he had on his arm.

He held the plans to the light so he could read what was written on them. It seemed to be a combination of notes from the original document and some new ones that had been added in green ink. The older notes detailed how the altar plinth had to be positioned above something called a resting stone. The new notes, written in James's hand, posed two specific questions:

Is the resting stone where JC is buried?

Is the
I
the key to the lost Cassidy riches?

Solomon frowned. “Is Jack Cassidy not buried up in the cemetery?”

“Apparently not. Some treasure hunters broke into his tomb a few years back after reading that line in his memoir about taking the secret of the lost riches to his grave. They posted pictures online. It was
empty.
”

Solomon remembered the repaired cracks he'd seen on Cassidy's tomb up at the cemetery. “So where is he buried?”

“Who knows? The mayor maybe, but if he does, he's not saying.”

Solomon studied the drawings again. The resting stone was placed directly beneath the altar, the most sacred spot in the church. “I think your husband had an idea,” he said, pointing at the
I
shape in the center of the plan of the church.

Holly looked at it. “Oh my God,” she said. “Take this.” She handed him her phone, then set off in the darkness. Solomon listened to her receding footsteps through the sounds of rushing water and thought he heard something else. His horse snorted over by the stream and the light came on in Holly's car and whatever sound he had heard was gone. He turned his attention back to the documents, picking up the list of chemicals and studying it again, letting his teeming mind furnish him with more information about each one. He noticed a small mark by one of the chemicals on the list, made in the same green ink he had seen on the plans: TCE—
trichloroethylene.
His mind seized it and started peeling away at it, telling him the story of what it was:

Halocarbon, clear nonflammable liquid, no smell, initially used as an analgesic but now discontinued due to health worries, commonly used as an industrial solvent.

He focused harder, digging deeper into what it was. And in the torrent of information he saw something that explained exactly why James Coronado had taken this particular document and hidden it, and why they'd had to kill him to keep him quiet.

“Look at this—” Holly reappeared from the dark with an envelope in her hand. “It was the last thing Jim requisitioned from the archive before he died.”

Solomon took it and pulled the drawing from inside. It was a design for the altar itself showing detailed drawings of both the copper cross and the plinth it sat upon. Solomon studied the diagrams, the side elevations, the shapes they made, and he understood. “This is it,” he said. “This is my connection to your husband. I'm here to finish what he started.” He undid a button on his shirt and reached inside. “When I arrived here, the only possessions I had were the copy of Jack Cassidy's memoir and this.” He held up the cross he wore around his neck.

“The altar cross?”

“That's what I thought, designed by Jack Cassidy, just like he designed all of this, the church, the decor, even the plinth the cross rests on. ‘Not bad for a man who started life as a locksmith,'” he said, quoting what the mayor had said to him in the church.

He held the cross up and saw it now for what it was. Not a cross but a key.

He looked back down at the document Holly had brought. “Your husband had almost discovered the lost Cassidy riches,” he said. “He was so close.”

He studied the drawing of the altar cross and the detailed elevation of the stone plinth it was to rest on. There was an inscription on the upper face of it that would be hidden by the base of the cross. It was the first commandment:

I

THOU SHALT HAVE

NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME

Solomon studied the
I
, carefully drawn so that it was positioned low down and central to the plinth. Then he held up the cross around his neck and turned it around so he could see the shape of the base. It was the same. The base of the key formed an
I
. And he had just found the lock it fit.

He stared out into the solid darkness, thinking about how they might get into the church, breathing in the smells of night—the still damp earth giving up its scents, creosote and sage and something else. Something that shouldn't be there. He breathed deeper, trying to fix on where the odor of gun oil and sweat was coming from and realized too late that it was coming from everywhere.

“Stay calm,” he said to Holly, and caught the confusion on her face. “We're about to meet the man who killed your husband.”

Bright lights flashed out of the dark, blinding them in an instant. “Nobody move,” Morgan called out. “Hands where I can see them.”

More lights flicked on and black figures surged toward them. Someone grabbed Solomon's arms, yanked them behind him, and cable-tied him.

“How did you find us?” Solomon asked.

“Billy Walker,” Morgan replied. “Woke up and told us what he'd heard of your conversation. Said he thought you might be heading to the crash site, so I figured you'd wind up here, smart pair of people like yourselves.”

Holly lunged for him and strong hands had to hold her back. “And how did
you
know?” she screamed. “You knew because you killed him.” She spat at him and it caught him on the chest.

Morgan looked down. “That's the second shirt you've spoiled today.” He stepped forward and backhanded her across the face. “I've been waiting to do that all day,” he said. He shoved her aside and picked up the documents from the ground. “Sorry we messed up your house searching for these,” he said, pulling a lighter from his pocket. “If your husband had been smart, none of this would have happened.” He sparked a flame and held it to the edge of the pages of the groundwater contamination documents until they caught. He dropped them in the firepit, watched them burn, then turned back to them with a smile. “That's one loose end tied up. Just you two to square away now. Come with me,” he said, walking away across the deserted camp. Someone shoved Solomon from behind to make him follow. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

M
ULCAHY RUMBLED OVER THE RIPPLED ROAD, PICKING HIS WAY CAREFULLY
across the heat-damaged surface. It was hard to tell in the twilight where the blacktop ended and the scorched desert began, and he didn't want to end up in a ditch or with a shredded tire.

Tío was humming something to himself in the passenger seat. He had hardly said a word since he had taken such delight in filling Mulcahy in on his family history. He had spent most of his time fiddling with his phone or staring out of the window, occasionally pointing his finger at a bird or a passing car and making the sound of a gunshot like a bored five-year-old on a long trip.

Mulcahy had already seen Tío's influence though, stretching ahead of them like an invisible tentacle. There had been no patrolmen at the barriers blocking off the heat-damaged road and there was no one up ahead at the crash site either.

“Pull over,” Tío said, pointing at the twisted nest of black metal.

Mulcahy eased the car to a stop and Tío got out and walked over to what was left of the plane. He crouched down and peered through the twisted spars and ribs of metal. Mulcahy knew what
he was looking for, but doubted it would still be there. He hoped it wasn't.

He had traveled hundreds of miles to end up right back at this same spot. He should have stayed put and saved everyone a whole heap of bother. Some people would still be breathing and walking around if he had, though his father would not be one of them. He switched off the engine, got out of the car, and joined Tío on the road.

“He was there,” Mulcahy said, pointing into the heart of the wreckage. “Looks like they cut him free and took him away. The morgue in town is my guess. They might have shipped him out, but I doubt it. Better to take whatever samples they need in a clinical environment than out here with the dust blowing everywhere. If you want your son's body, it'll be in town.”

Tío nodded then leaned back to stretch the kinks out of his spine. “Let's go find him then,” he said and started to amble across to the car.

Mulcahy stayed where he was. “What's the move here, Tío?” Tío stopped walking and turned to face him. “You pulled me off what I was doing to come play chauffeur and now we're standing out here in the middle of the desert, staring at a town I know you want to burn to the ground, but there's only two of us. Now I want to do what I can to get my old man off the hook here, really I do, but I can't see the move. Are we waiting for some people? Is that what we're doing? I'm flattered if you think I'm all you need to wreak vengeance on a whole town, but, truthfully, I think we may need some help.”

Tío smiled. “Don't worry about it,” he said, and got into the car.

Mulcahy shook his head. This was what had worried him about Tío's erratic, out-of-character behavior.

He got in the car and turned the engine on. “So this is the move, we just drive into town?”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Well, I'm guessing that after what I did to that rancher, they might be on their guard somewhat.”

Tío's smile grew wider. “I'm counting on it. Now if you want your loser dad to see another dawn, you shut your mouth and take us into town.”

“They're back in the car, sir.”

Suarez was one of the two SDMs on the detail. He was lying prone in the bed of a pickup truck to give him some elevation and watching what was happening a couple of miles out of town through the sight of his long-barreled M6.

“On the move. Inbound.”

They were too far out for a shot but he could see the two figures well enough and they were getting clearer the closer they got.

“Let me know when you got a positive ID,” Andrews said through the comms.

“Roger that, sir. Should be in a couple of minutes or so. They can't drive too fast over this road.”

He kept the crosshairs on the passenger, following the movement of the car, his finger on the trigger guard.