Washed Up (A Gracie Andersen Mystery Book 4) (12 page)

Max easily jumped from the truck, whining as Marc snapped on a leash.

“You sure he’s up to this?” Craig Ames, the search-and-rescue coordinator, asked.

“Yeah. The cut healed quickly. He’s got a protective boot for rough terrain, just in case.” Marc reached into the truck’s front seat.

Max reluctantly allowed the cushioned leather paw protector to be fastened. He sniffed at it, dancing sideways.

“He’s going nuts at home. He needs to be working. We’ll see how he does. I’m not going to push it.”

“All right, but it could be tough going in some parts,” Craig answered, checking a clipboard. He turned to address his team. “Okay, everyone, you’ve got your areas. We’re searching from Trail 829 to the Rufous Loop and the Allen Trail fork up to Trail 89. There are some washes and ravines they might have gotten caught in.”

He grabbed the leash of a rangy chocolate Lab. “Marc, why don’t you and Max partner up with Gravy and me.”

Marc nodded, following Craig and Gravy into the forest, while the rest of the team, six men and two women with their dogs, dispersed onto the web of trails.

Max showed no signs of limping and eagerly kept up with the Lab. Gravy was an old hand at search and rescue, sniffing and steadily working his way up the trail. Marc kept a firm hand on the shepherd’s leash. He was taking a chance allowing the dog to be back in action so soon. Another injury could sideline Max again. He didn’t want him to overdo it in the first 30 minutes. They could be searching for hours.

Craig’s walkie-talkie crackled with updates from the three other teams. No sign of the missing treasure hunters so far. Marc was anxious to locate the fork where Gracie and Amanda had seen the two from their position in the bushes. Once they were well away from the parking lot, he was on the lookout for the pile of stones Gracie had placed as a marker, indicating the direction the missing men had gone.

“Here it is,” he said, catching sight of the pile of three flat rocks with a round stone on top under a squatty, misshapen juniper.

“All right, let’s head this-a-way.” Craig hung a quick left with Gravy.

Max continued without any sign of tenderness, sniffing the ground intently, pulling hard against Marc’s strong grip.

“Max might have something,” Marc called to Craig, who’d moved off the trail toward a wash. He gave the dog more slack, and the leash was instantly pulled taut as Max lunged forward.

The shepherd whined, focused on the scent, easily scaling a small cluster of rocks and plunging down into a small wash. Water flowed at a trickle, and Marc jogged behind his dog, splashing through the stream. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Gravy and Craig following at a brisk clip.

“I think Gravy’s picked up something too,” Craig yelled.

The Lab dug his paws into the ground, leaping to clear a low barrier of scrub and sending stones scattering into the water.

The ground softened and became grassy with only a few trees and bushes. Max slammed on the brakes, yipping.

“Oh, great! Did you hurt yourself, boy?” Marc bent to examine the dog’s paw.

Max shied away, working himself toward a gravelly slope.

“I guess not.” Marc tried unsuccessfully to grab the leather leash. “What did you find?”

A bit of barbed wire with a small sign was barely visible in a clump of grass at the bottom of the slope. Along with a skull and crossbones, the sign warned “Danger! Abandoned mines are deadly. Don’t get trapped. Stay alive.” The flimsy wire enclosure had been cut, and the ends dangled in the tall grass.

“We’ve got an abandoned mine,” Marc shouted to Craig, who was making his way down. “Somebody’s been exploring, by the looks of it.”

“Watch out for unmarked ones,” Craig cautioned, joining Marc a few feet from the enclosure. “Where there’s one, there may be more, and who knows how deep they are.”

Marc nodded, snatching up the leash and giving Max the down command. Craig made a careful circuit around the hole, watchful for any other signs of excavation. Gravy lay next to Max, both dogs panting. Marc cautiously peered over the side. The hole was about six feet in diameter.

“Anybody down there?” Marc called.

Craig shone a flashlight into the darkness, revealing muddy walls and a few puddles on the earthen floor. There appeared to be a tunnel to the west.

“Look. There’s some rope down there. Seems fairly new to me.”

Marc agreed. The length of rope wasn’t old or frayed, simply dirty.

“Is anybody down there? Search-and-rescue team. We’re here to help!” Marc yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth.

The drop was about 10 to 12 feet, from his calculations. He squatted, hoping to hear a response.

“Do you think the dogs got it wrong?” Marc asked, standing and brushing the dirt off his hands and onto his jeans.

“Not likely. We may have a recovery on our hands, rather than a rescue,” Craig said solemnly.

“Maybe. Somebody’s going to have to go down and check it out.”

“We need some more help.” Craig unclipped the radio from his belt.

***

An influx of guests kept Amanda busy with check-ins and tours, which put Gracie temporarily in charge of Mistee.

“Can I get you some coffee or tea?” Gracie asked.

“No. That’s okay. I need to call Hank’s family, but since the cops haven’t called back, I’m still not sure what to tell them.” Mistee picked at her nail polish.

She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Gracie couldn’t understand why neither the DEA nor the sheriff’s office had returned a call. Ricky seemed to be central to everything going on, and Mistee was the first person who actually had information about him. They needed to talk to the woman.

“So, Ricky was into drugs for sure?”

“He was mixed up with them really young. His mother led the way into the drug world. Everybody smokes some weed, but if you’re hooked on the hard stuff, it’s a bad scene. He was probably born a crack baby.”

“Do you know where Hank was going to look for Ricky?”

“Not sure. He was in the Huachucas though.”

“Was it Ash Canyon where they originally looked for him?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’m really not sure.”

Mistee rose from the overstuffed chair, pacing to the kitchen and back. Her cell began ringing, and she hesitantly answered.

The conversation with the sheriff’s office was brief, and Mistee teared up again, blowing her nose into the tissue offered by Gracie.

“It’s all true.” She hiccupped, wiping tears from her chin. “He was shot. They won’t tell me where or why, but he was positively identified by a deputy last night. His body was taken to the medical examiner in Tucson and won’t be released until the autopsy is done.”

“I’m so sorry, Mistee,” Gracie repeated, wishing she wasn’t flying solo. Amanda’s presence would be more than welcome.

“I’m going to make those calls now,” Mistee announced, clutching her cellphone. “I’ll use the yoga studio.”

Amanda breezed in seconds after Mistee’s departure. Gracie quickly updated her on the sheriff’s call.

“It’s about time. The least they could’ve done was go to her apartment or keep calling. Unbelievable! And here’s another problem. I have people coming in tonight for Alex’s and Justin’s casita. What am I supposed to do with their stuff? They were scheduled to check out this morning.”

“That’s tricky.”

“You bet your boots it is, but I had Ida pack their gear into the suitcases. I’m going down to haul them up here. Have you heard from Marc?”

“No. I’m beginning to wonder about our dinner date tonight.”

She looked at her watch. He was supposed to pick her up at six, and it was after five, with no reply to her call from an hour ago.

“Want a hand with the suitcases?” she asked, trying to tamp down the doubts she could feel bubbling to the surface about Marc actually arriving on time.

“No. Go get yourself gussied up. I’ll handle the luggage.”

***

With harnesses and ropes securely in the hands of search-and-rescue team members, Marc and Craig were lowered into the pit. They began crawling on hands and knees into the tunnel. Marc led the way, his headlamp illuminating the narrow passage. It was wet and smelled musty and stale. After about 20 feet, the tunnel opened up into a chamber of rock piles, and they were able to stand.

“Anybody here?” Craig called out.

Marc’s light hit an object. He stepped forward to examine it.

“This looks like part of an old Spanish helmet, a conquistador helmet.” Marc carefully lifted the rusted flared rim and partial headpiece from the dirt.

“Criminey!” Craig reached out to take the helmet from Marc. “How in the world did this end up down here?”

“Look!” Marc scrambled over a rock pile. “There’s pottery, a knife, and … Hey, what is this place?”

Several broken, brightly colored clay jars were scattered toward the back of the chamber, and a dull-colored dagger was stuck in a timber support beam.

A scuffling sound caught the men’s attention.

“Back this way.” Craig pointed into the darkness.

Marc found that the tunnel continued past the larger chamber into a second one that didn’t allow him to stand erect. Craig followed, shining his headlamp into the dark recesses of the cavity.

“Who’s here? Can you hear me?” Craig hollered.

“Search and rescue. We’re here to help you!” Marc added.

The scuffling sound began again.

“It’s back here.” Marc gingerly walked to the left to make sure he didn’t bean himself on the low ceiling.

The headlamp’s beam shone on a man’s hiking boot. A rope was around the ankle.

“I found somebody,” Marc called.

He turned the light to identify the foot’s owner.

Justin’s eyes squinted against the glare. He was gagged, and his arms were bound tightly behind his back.

“I found the other one,” Craig said.

His somber tone immediately told Marc they were on both a rescue and a recovery mission.

***

Marc gratefully unsnapped the harness and joined the aboveground team and Max. The sunlight and fresh air were welcome.

He patted Max on the head. “You were right, big guy. They were down there.”

The dog wagged his tail, barking excitedly.

“Easy, boy. Settle down. We’ve still got work to do.”

It was a tedious business extricating Justin and the now-deceased Alex. The gaping knife wound in Alex’s left shoulder was sure to be labeled the cause of death.

A team member grappled with the tottering Justin to secure him into the harness for the trip out of the pit. Reaching the top, Marc grabbed the man and eased him into a sitting position on the ground.

“How are you doing?” he asked, handing him a bottle of water.

“All right now. I was sure I’d die in the dark down there. I can’t believe you found me.”

“You can thank Max and Gravy for that.”

Justin nodded, watching the two male dogs meander through the grass, sniffing and peeing.

“Who did this to you?”

Justin’s eyes widened in fear, searching the faces of the search-and-rescue team.

It was past six. Gracie chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to control the potential landslide of emotions.

No call from Marc. Things at the cave must have gotten complicated. But a call, a simple call, to say he would be late or couldn’t make it would have at least made her less anxious. Any number of bad things could happen in a cave—landslide, cave-in, a bear even.

Such was the life of a police officer’s wife. It might be her life, and she needed to get a handle on it—if he ever proposed. She’d even refined her “yes” through varying stages of what Jim would certainly tag as gooiness to what she was sure was a dignified “yes.”

As time marched on though, her perfect outfit and makeup would continue to suffer. Her auburn hair was curling in rebellion despite the straightening wand work she’d attempted. The evening was humid with no rain to cool off the air, which made her feel like her makeup was running. She was pretty sure her deodorant had let her down too. However, the sundress she was wearing was fetching. That had been confirmed by the elderly birdwatcher in the next casita. “You look fetching” had been the white-haired lady’s exact quote. She was pretty pleased about the dress. It was a botanical print with a scoop neckline and handkerchief hem. It would be a shame to waste all her sartorial efforts by not having a nice dinner somewhere. Maybe she’d borrow Amanda’s car again or ask her if she’d like to go to dinner with her.

She made her way back down the pathway to the main house, hoping that Amanda didn’t have plans. As she approached the parking lot, she noticed the ranger’s truck parked near the handicapped space. What was going on now? Maybe there was news from Marc. Maybe Marc’s phone was dead, or he couldn’t get a signal and had sent the ranger to let her know what was happening. Well, probably not, but it would have been very gallant. She hurried inside and found Amanda talking with Ranger Ortiz.

“Sure. Take a look at their suitcases. We packed up everything today. I had guests taking over their casita tonight.”

“Thanks, Amanda. I need to make sure nothing was overlooked in the last search. I have a feeling they were hiding something.”

“Any word on what’s happening at the cave?” Gracie asked.

The ranger looked over and smiled. “They were finished up there a long time ago.”

“Really? I haven’t been able to get a hold of Marc in hours. They’re done?”

“That’s right. Everybody’s gone home.” He tipped his hat and followed Amanda into the courtyard, down the walkway to her living quarters.

She stood contemplating the ranger’s statement. Her extension of grace and understanding were for naught. She was officially stood up. Several words came to mind, none of which appropriate for a lady’s utterance. Besides, she might cry, and that would really mess up her face. She stalked off, deciding that she’d watch Netflix on her iPad and call it a night. She needed some sort of nourishment and then remembered there was microwave popcorn in her casita along with a microwave. It would do.

Kicking off her “cute sandals”—also the exact words of the little old birdwatcher—she flopped onto the bed, tapping the Netflix app on her iPad. Her cell rang just as
The
X-Files
was loading.

Marc’s voice came across loud, clear, and almost poignant with remorse. Almost.

“Gracie, I’m really sorry. My phone wasn’t getting a signal in the cave or the mine.”

“The mine? What mine?” she demanded coldly.

“The mine I was in as part of the search and rescue after the cave investigation. I ended up involved with a rescue. I know … I know our date is screwed up because of this, but we’re closing out this case right now.”

“Really. What happened? What did you find out?” she asked, excitement and concern thawing her.

“Uh … I can’t—”

“Right. Of course, you can’t. It’s about those treasure hunters, isn’t it? Because Ranger Ortiz is here. Amanda’s letting him search their stuff.”

“He is?”

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“Are you in the casita?”

“Yes,” she responded slowly. “I’m watching Netflix.”

“Stay there. Don’t go anywhere, and make sure your door is locked. Please promise me.”

“Okay. I will. What’s going on?”

The call had already ended. Goosebumps ran across her arms as she jumped up to throw the deadbolt.

Maybe Alex and Justin were coming back to the ranch, and the police were in pursuit. She should at least let Amanda and the park ranger know. However, she’d promised to stay in the casita. On the other hand, she didn’t know for sure why Marc wanted her to stay put.

Raised voices caught her attention. Gracie peeked through the drapes in the front window. The dim solar lights on the pathways didn’t clearly define the two people headed her way, but the voices were familiar. Amanda was arguing with the ranger about opening the casita recently vacated by Alex and Justin. There was a family now in residence, and Amanda made her disapproval known in no uncertain terms.

“You don’t have a search warrant for the casita now. I can’t let you in. There are other guests in there. I don’t even know—”

“Mrs. Littlefield, it’s extremely important that I check the casita one more time. Your cooperation is necessary, and it’s in your best interest to comply.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s in my best interest’?” Amanda demanded.

Gracie shut the drapes. A good question that.

She realized then why Marc had practically ordered her to remain in the casita. Frantically, she made a call to Marc, sitting on the floor, her back to the bed, out of sight of the door.

“Gracie? Are you all right?”

“For the moment. But Amanda might not be,” she half-whispered.

“What’s going on?”

“The ranger has Amanda at Alex’s and Justin’s casita, but there are other people staying in it now. I’m not sure if they’re―”

“We’re almost to the ranch. Is he armed?”

“Uh … I don’t know. I saw him in the house, uh … maybe.”

Why hadn’t she been more observant? Squeezing her eyes shut, Gracie tried to recall her recent encounter.

“Yes. Yes. He has a gun. I remember now. Oh, Marc, he’s really upset. He might hurt Amanda.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“I’ll check the peephole on the door.”

“Are your blinds closed?”

“Yes. I’m being careful.”

Pressing her eye against the peephole, she scanned the small area visible. There didn’t appear to be anyone around.

“I don’t see anybody. Maybe he’s left. I can’t tell.”

“All right. We’re in the parking lot. Stay where you are, and don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

“Okay. Be careful, Marc,” she pleaded, ending the call.

She pulled the blinds slightly from the side of the window, trying to get a better view of any outside activity. Lights were on in Alex’s and Justin’s former casita. She hoped the family wasn’t there. That would complicate things even more. Amanda appeared from the doorway, Ranger Ortiz behind her. His gun, now quite visible, was firmly planted into her back.

“Let’s check the sheds, Mrs. Littlefield. It must be here somewhere, and I’m beginning to believe you know exactly where it is.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Armando. You’ve lost your ever-lovin’ mind.”

“I’m thinking quite clearly. It’s cocaine, Mrs. Littlefield. A brick of it, which is worth a lot of money. You mentioned to us that you saw Justin and Alex with it the day you went caving. They aren’t in possession of it now. Maybe you and the deputy’s girlfriend decided to help yourselves and blame the
gringos
. In fact, maybe we need to ask her about it.”

“I don’t have the filthy stuff. And neither does Gracie. Leave her out of it,” Amanda quavered.

Gracie’s legs felt like pudding. Where were Marc and the cavalry? The deadbolt wouldn’t keep the likes of Ranger Ortiz from entering the casita. And it wouldn’t take much for him to pull the trigger, by the looks of things.

Exhaling slowly, she let the drapery drop back into position. She was a sitting duck and on the way to being a possible dead duck. The only other way out was the bathroom window. Could she get through it? There wasn’t much time.

An eyeball measurement indicated the window’s promise as an escape hatch. Standing on the toilet, she slid the window open and punched the screen out. The pounding on her door compelled Gracie to jam herself through, praying no snakes or cacti greeted her on the other side.

Landing on her hands and knees in gravel, she sprang to her feet and ran toward the parking lot. A shot rang out behind her and she fell flat on the stones, praying that she or Amanda hadn’t been hit.

“Gracie!” a voice hissed from a shadow.

“Marc?”

“I told you—!”

“He’s after me too. I had to run.”

“Get over here.”

An arm stretched out in the gloom, grasping her hand and pulling her into the scanty shelter of a mimosa tree.

“Stay here and outta sight,” Marc commanded.

Gracie nodded, biting her lower lip. “Be careful, please be careful,” she whispered.

She crouched near the tree trunk and watched Marc and two other darkly clad men move stealthily toward the casitas. By their shapes, she identified Marc’s companions as Agents Galvez and Miller.

Another gunshot shattered the air. Gracie gulped, feeling sick. Molly and Cochise were barking from somewhere in the Santa Fe. Grunts and the sounds of a struggle were close by. She inched forward from under the fronds of the mimosa, straining to see if Armando Ortiz was in custody.

“He’s over there!” Amanda yelled.

Gracie had no idea where “there” was and clung to the tree trunk. The bulky silhouette and heavy footfall of the ranger passed her location. He was actually getting away! Had one of the guys been hit?

She stood away from the mimosa, anger replacing fear. This was not happening. If he’d hurt Marc, she didn’t care what it took. Armando Ortiz was going down.

Looking around for a weapon of any kind, she snatched up a rock that filled her hand nicely. David had done in Goliath with a stone. There was no slingshot, but she had a pretty good arm. She could at least slow him down. Gracie skirted the edge of the large cactus garden near the Santa Fe’s entrance that was lit with small spotlights. She hoped there was enough light to locate the escaping ranger. The running footsteps behind her inspired a faster pace. At least she had backup. A strong hand clamped onto her bicep, pulling her backwards.

“We’ve got this. Get down,” Marc ordered, pushing her to the ground.

Plopping onto the gravel, she watched the DEA agents follow Marc.

Ortiz abruptly slowed and zigzagged back toward her and the cactus garden. The lights at the front of the B & B were bright, and coupled with the garden lights, exposed his egress easily. He looked like a cornered animal, his face twisted into a dangerous snarl.

“Stop, Ortiz,” Marc shouted, taking aim with his Glock.

Agents Miller and Galvez flanked Marc, barring any escape. Two other officers stood in the parking lot, shotguns raised.

The ranger complied and turned, his sidearm pointed in Marc’s direction.

Marc fired simultaneously with the DEA agents. Armando Ortiz spun around, flailing his arms, backpedaling to regain his balance.  Stumbling over the rock border, he seemed to pirouette in slow motion—almost graceful. He then fell face down into a large, fuzzy, tentacled cactus. If she remembered correctly, Amanda had identified the rather spectacular species as a teddy bear cholla—a real prize. Gracie closed her eyes in anticipation of what was coming. The white thorned cactus unceremoniously collapsed under the weight of its occupant. It wasn’t pretty.

The body of Ranger Ortiz lay right next to the B & B sign: “Welcome to Little Red Hen Ranch. Enjoy your stay.”

***

Extricating the ranger’s body from the wicked thorns of the cactus took some time. Gracie didn’t envy the forensic crew or the EMTs, who were, no doubt, racking up significant overtime.

Amanda stood in the parking lot, directing guests to their casitas via an alternate walkway. The law enforcement entourage, with their flashing lights surrounding the cactus garden, blocked the easy access. Once all the chickens had come home to roost—Amanda’s word
s
Gracie trudged after her to the residence.

“Do you drink whisky?” Amanda asked hoarsely.

“Not as a rule, but tonight I’ll make an exception.”

“Good. I hate to drink alone.”

The exhausted hostess poured two shots and handed one to Gracie.

“That is something I’ll never get over.” Amanda knocked back the brown liquid. Her eyes squinted for a second, and she poured herself another hefty shot.

“It was gruesome,” said Gracie. “I can’t wait to hear the whole story. He thought you had cocaine? He was involved with drugs?”

“Agent Galvez filled me in on some details. They were really hoping to take Ortiz in alive. But … c’est la vie.” She knocked back the drink. “He was the cartel member they’ve been tracking for months. They weren’t sure who it was, but lucky for them, a witness came forward and identified Ortiz as the guy this afternoon.”