Adios Angel (20 page)

“Come on,
Ángel.  It’s time to get the hell out of here.”

Ángel opened
his eyes with a great deal of difficulty.  His head felt like it was going to
explode.  He couldn’t think straight.  His mouth tasted like moldy socks.  He
put his fingers on his tongue to see if something had found its way in there
while he slept.

“I think you
celebrated a little too much last night,” Jimmie Joe chuckled.

Two empty
tequila bottles lay at Ángel’s feet.  Then he remembered the robbery.  Sneaking
up to the roof, breaking into the credit union, sliding through the small vent
into the vault and all that money.  Two big sacks full of cash.  He opened his
eyes a little further and saw Jimmie Joe towering over him.  One big sack of
money tucked under each of his arms.

“Let’s go. 
Drain your lizard and let’s blow this pop stand.”

“Where are
we going, Jimmie Joe?” said Ángel rising to his feet.  “I thought we were going
to split the money up and each go our own way?”

“Come on,
move it.  That’s exactly what we are going to do.  But first we got to move
away from this place in case somebody saw us come back.”

Ángel
gathered his things and scampered outside. 

“Put your
things in the Vega.  I’ll take the truck.  Follow me,” commanded Jimmie Joe.

“Where are
we going?” asked Ángel.

“I told you
from the very beginning…don’t ask questions.  But if you really need to know,
we’re going to a safe place to split up the money, a real safe place.  I’ve got
a beautiful candy-apple-red Corvette stashed away for you over in Tucson as a
little going away bonus.”

“How did you
get that?”

“Remember
our friend Noah Hanks?  The car thief from prison?  He got you the car.”

Ángel
thought he remembered something else he had heard about Noah as hopped behind
the wheel of the Vega, that his brother was a sheriff somewhere in southern
Arizona.  In the back seat were five gallon jugs of water in case the radiator
hose started leaking again.  Jimmie Joe peeled out of the driveway and headed
east at full speed; Ángel tailed close behind.  Near the Gila River just past
the Riparian Preserve and into a valley, a sickening feeling overcame Ángel as
Jimmie Joe turned the truck north on County Road 6.  Jimmie Joe was headed
directly to Grandfather Felipe’s house. 

As Ángel
pulled into his grandfather’s driveway Jimmie Joe was already standing outside
his truck smoking a cigarette.  A cool northern wind sneaking under the
prevailing westerly wind created a downdraft.  The old windmill squawked loudly
as it fought against the opposing winds.  Trembling, Ángel thought of something
his grandfather told him as a child…northern winds carry bad luck.  He looked
over at his grandfather’s truck.  The propped open hood could mean only one
thing…his grandfather must be in the house.  What would he think when he saw
Ángel with Jimmie Joe?  What could Ángel say to his grandfather?

“Let’s go
somewhere else and split things up,” said Ángel.  “I don’t think we’re safe
here.”

“Why?” asked
Jimmie Joe.  “All you ever talked about in prison was seeing your precious Juanita
and your loving grandfather.”

“Jimmie--”

“He’s not
here anyway, so don’t sweat it,” said Jimmie Joe.  “You are still his precious
little Ángel.”

“His truck
is here.  He never goes anywhere without his truck.  How do you know he’s not
here?”

Ángel dashed
past the Diablo Blanco and ran into the small house.

“Abuelo! 
Abuelo Felipe?  Grandfather??”

Ángel turned
around to see his partner in crime standing in the doorway.

“I told you,
he’s not here.  You should listen to me.  You don’t trust me do you?”

“Where is
he?  Where is my Abuelo?  Where is my grandfather?  Tell me where is Felipe
Madrigal?” Ángel roared in a voice that even he had never heard come out of his
own mouth.

“You’re a
regular little firecracker when you get your undies in a bunch, aren’t you?”

“Where is my
grandfather?” demanded Ángel threateningly.  “Tell me now or else!”

“Or else
what?  Don’t tell me you’re going to pull out that little peashooter of yours
and put a bullet in me?” chided Jimmie Joe.  “I don’t think your man enough to
try that.  Go ahead if you think you are.”

Ángel knew
he would end up on the short end of the stick if he tried anything, but in a
moment of madness he put his head down and charged ahead, full speed, at Jimmie
Joe’s big belly. 

In his
agitated state Ángel did not see the much bigger man pull the .38 from his
holster.  He only felt the steel handle as it cracked against his skull sending
him into a cartoonish swirl of dancing stars.  Crashing to the ground, Ángel
became strangely lucid.  Would he ever see Juanita again?  Was his grandfather
alive?  Would Jimmie Joe’s next move be to place the gun behind his ear, slowly
pull back on the trigger and put a bullet into his brain?  This final thought,
as consciousness drifted away, brought a smile to his face.  The pain of
getting hit over the head would certainly give him a headache.  If he wasn’t
dead, when he woke up he could deal with the pain.

Jimmie held
a loose finger on the trigger of the .38 as he caressed Ángel’s ear with the
barrel of the gun.  A demonic smile covered his face as he bent down and spoke
to the unconscious Ángel.  “I ought to blow your fucking stupid ass brains to
Kingdom come, my little muchacha.  But I know you will suffer so much more
knowing that you killed your lovely gata, Juanita, and put your grandfather in
jail. And I don’t think the sheriff is going to be happy when he knows that little
red Corvette that got his brother killed has your things in the trunk.  It
would just be too nice of a final gesture to kill your sorry ass.   Goodbye,
little one.  See you in hell.”

Ángel did
not hear Jimmie Joe’s pickup back out of the driveway.  But when he came, to
the truck’s tire tracks gave the Diablo Blanco away.  The big man was heading
north, up County Road 6, toward the San Carlos Reservation.  Ángel knew the
road.  He knew Jimmie Joe had only two escape routes from there, Indian Route
11 to the northwest or the old mining road that led to the long abandoned
Indian Flats Mine.  Ángel stumbled over to his grandfather’s truck.  If he
could get it running, it would be a much better option than the Vega.  One
quick look at the engine and his decision was made.  Without a distributor cap
it wasn’t going anywhere.      

Ángel tasted
the blood pouring from his head as he stumbled along the outside of the house and
made his way to the door.  Inside, respectful of his grandfather’s house, he
wrapped his head in a towel before falling into his grandfather’s chair as
visions of his dead mother and dead grandmother surrounded him. 

“Maybe I am
to die for my bad deeds,” he muttered aloud.

Ángel fell
off a deep abyss into unconsciousness.  He had visited many a nightmarish place
in his alcohol induced stupors, but nothing scared him like the dreadful
feeling of falling into a bottomless hole as he passed out in his grandfather’s
chair. 

Demons
nipping at his heels howled with the same terrible cackling he had heard come
from Jimmie Joe.  In his hallucinogenic dream state Ángel found himself covered
in blood.  Off in the hazy distance his mother and grandmother cried out to God
to forgive Ángel and save the soul of their poor boy.  He called out to them.  His
words fell on deaf ears as the images of his loved ones drifted further and
further away.  In despair he fell to his knees, ready to die, when he felt the presence
of his grandfather. 

“Grandfather…save
me.  Please help me.  I will never drink again.  Please.  Please.”

A powerful
gust of wind blew open the door to the small house, then slammed it shut again. 
Ángel stirred.  A second gust of wind buffeted the door and his eyes
fluttered.  A third and he awoke. 

“Grandfather? 
Is that you?”

Ángel tried
to stand, but his legs failed him.  He slumped deeper down in his grandfather’s
chair.  Blood, some dried and caked, some flowing, covered his aching head.  He
swooned with each attempted motion.  He knew he was alive because only living
men know they are bleeding.  Stumbling to the sink he washed his face and wiped
away the blood with his grandfather’s towel.  Lifting his head to the mirror he
saw only shame in what he had become.

“What have I
done to my family?”

The wind
slapping against the screened door startled Ángel.  He instinctively reached
for his knife.  What had he become?  Now, understanding the hopelessness of his
situation, Ángel began to sob.  He begged for an answer.  Struggling to his car
Ángel stuck his hand under the seat and grabbed a paper bag, money he had taken
when Jimmie Joe wasn’t looking.  It was maybe ten thousand dollars.  He stuffed
it behind the seat of his grandfather’s truck. 

Returning to
the rusted out Vega he turned on the radio to the Spanish speaking station. A
newswoman reporting on the Morenci robbery said the bandits had gotten away
with almost two million dollars.  The police had no suspects and were asking
people to call in for a big reward if they knew anything.  Ángel glanced up and
down County Road 6.  Better to escape and be with his beloved than to have
dirty money. 

The
newscaster flashed a sudden update on the story.  Police were looking for a
large White male, thirty-five to forty years old, for a murder in Tucson. 
Ángel felt a chill enshroud him.  The White male suspect had a deformed left
hand and was missing two or three fingers.  He reached for the silver cross
necklace around his neck.  The victim was a twenty-year-old Mexican woman.  She
was found with a broken neck, in a burned out blue Chevrolet LUV pickup truck. 
She had no known connection to her believed assailant, the large White male
with short hair and a deformed hand.  If anyone knew anything about the
incident, they were to call Detective Max Muñoz at the police department in
Tucson.

“The woman
worked as a waitress at the El Charo restaurant in Tucson…”

Ángel felt
his heart being squeezed, then crushed by an unseen force.

“…she has
been identified as Juanita Melindez.” 

Ángel
screamed and bolted from the car.  He ran until his knees buckled beneath him. 
Choking on bloody vomit and stricken with grief Ángel was unable to lift his
heavy head.  He felt nothing but hatred in his broken heart; he cursed eternal
revenge upon the Diablo Blanco.

Sheriff
Hanks and Deputy Steele stood less than fifty feet away from the abandoned
trailer, weapons drawn.

“I don’t see
anyone,” whispered Sheriff Hanks.  “I’ll sneak around back.  Cover me.  Keep an
eye on the front door.”

Crouching
low and trotting quietly alongside the trailer, Zeb stopped suddenly, shot
upward like an alert chipmunk and poked his head up to the lower edge of a
window.  Looking back at Deputy Steele he shook his head and moved to the next
window.  Each of the four windows of the trailer brought the same response. 
Zeb signaled Kate to remain at the west side of the trailer and edge near the
door.  His hand signaled her that he was going in and to draw close, just in
case.  With that he smashed through the back door using his shoulder.  The
trailer was abandoned.

“The coast
is clear,” he shouted.  “They’ve high-tailed it out of here.”

Kate joined
him inside the trailer.  Empty tequila and whiskey bottles, crushed beer cans,
dirty dishes, fast food wrappers and cigarette butts were everywhere.  Two
sleeping bags were in the living room, each haphazardly heaped into a pile.

“Somebody’s
been here recently.  I’m sure we’ll find enough prints to ID them.  Deputy
Steele, get on the radio. Call the state prison up in Florence Junction.  Talk
to the warden.  Find out who Ángel Gómez was friends with in the joint.  See if
you can connect him to a big white guy with missing fingers.  I’ll use the
two-way and have Helen call Police Chief Haugerud in Morenci to let him know
what we’ve got going on here.  Bring the county map from the glove compartment
when you come back.”

Kate raced
to the cruiser.  Zeb continued his search of the trailer.  As Zeb stepped on
one of the sleeping bags, he felt something with his foot.  Reaching in, he
pulled out a notebook.  Inside were pages of definite proof that they were at
the right place. 

Kate was
back in minutes.

“What did
you find out from the warden?” asked the sheriff.

“I was
lucky. I got right through to him.  He had heard about the robbery on the
news.  He knew exactly who I was asking about.  Ángel Gómez ended up under the
wing of Jimmie Joe Walker, a career criminal with everything but murder
convictions on his rap sheet.  He fits the description--six four, two hundred
forty pounds, missing three fingers on his left hand.  He’s got an IQ of 160,
but he’s a sociopath and psychological deviant.  Coincidentally, they were both
on the same cell block as your brother.”   

This
information was news to Sheriff Hanks.  He shuddered at the possibility of his
miscreant brother being involved with all of this.

“According
to the warden Walker abused Ángel and just about everyone else around him.  He
ran the cell block like a dictator when he wasn’t pumping iron and reading up
on explosives and bomb making in the prison library.”

“What did the
warden say Jimmie Joe had on Ángel?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

“Ángel’s a
hard core alcoholic.  Walker controlled the contraband, including booze.”    

“Did Helen
get anything from Chief Haugerud in Morenci?”

“Yes,” said
Deputy Steele.  “Helen told him what we’ve got and he told me what they’ve
got.”

“What is
it?”

“Someone saw
two men prowling around the alley behind the credit union a little after
midnight.”

“They get a
look at them?” asked the sheriff.

“White male,
tall, Native American or Mexican male, short.  They saw them getting out of an
oversized pickup truck, the kind set way up off the ground.  The description of
the truck matches exactly the one stolen two weeks ago in Tucson.”

“The same
day the Chevy Vega was stolen,” interrupted the sheriff.  “Probably the same
Vega that’s been seen multiple times around these parts being driven by a young
male that appeared to be either Mexican or Native.”

“Deputy
Steele, where would you go?”

The sheriff
scoured the notebook.

“What?”

“If you had
a million bucks?” asked the sheriff.  “Where would you go?”

“I suppose I
would leave the country as quickly as possible,” replied Deputy Steele.

“How about
if you stole a million bucks and this was your starting point?  Right here at
this trailer.  You have a million dollars in cold, hard cash.  Where would you
go so no one would find you?”

Deputy
Steele took no time in answering.

“Instinct
would tell me to head straight for the Mexican border.  But that is what the
authorities would figure as well.  Any criminal would have to assume the state
police and federal authorities would be thinking the same thing and have that
escape route covered with an APB.”

“Even young
Ángel probably has that figured out,” said Sheriff Hanks.

“The second
place I might think of going is north onto the reservation, at least until
things cooled off a little bit.  There aren’t many people up there.  There is
plenty of open space and more hiding places than anyone could ever get at. 
Everyone knows the tribal police aren’t much for cooperating with outside
agencies.”

“Do you
think Eskadi would work with us, help us get tribal police cooperation on this
one?”

“I doubt
it.  I am sure he views this as the evil White man’s corporation getting what’s
coming to him.”

“Even if one
of the thieves was White?”

Deputy
Steele could only shrug her shoulders.  Sheriff Hanks understood her meaning.

“Deputy
Steele, call the Border Patrol.  Have them be on the alert for a
twenty-one-year old Mexican, about five foot four, a hundred fifteen pounds,
feminine looking, long hair, drinking problem and a white male, thirty-five to
forty years of age, six foot four, two hundred forty pounds, with missing
fingers on his left hand.  Let them know they should be considered armed and
dangerous.”

“Yes, sir.”

Deputy
Steele once again raced to her vehicle and relayed the information.  Sheriff
Hanks walked slowly down the driveway of the trailer. He pointed to the ground
as Deputy Steele joined him.

“We know
they’ve got at least two vehicles,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “Look at the two sets
of tracks.  One is oversized and the other undersized and bald on the outer
edges.”

“One for
each of them.  They probably split up the money and headed in opposite
directions,” added Deputy Steele.

“Maybe, but
think about it for a second,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “According to the warden,
Jimmie Joe Walker is a sociopath with a genius IQ.  For the last two years he
has been psychologically and likely physically abusing Ángel routinely.  I
think I know where we might be able to find them both.”

“You’re a
step ahead of me, Sheriff.  Where?”

“Jimmie Joe
could complete the circle of his crime by returning to Felipe Madrigal’s
house.  Ángel grew up there.  It’s where Jimmie Joe coerced the old man to give
up the floor plan of the credit union, and it’s where he got Felipe to call in
the bomb threats.  It would be the perfect way to further psychologically abuse
Ángel,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “Jimmie Joe is clever and cunning.  He is also a
fucked up head case.  He might be taking Ángel back there to kill him.  That way
he would get his kicks from abusing Ángel one last time while ridding himself
of the one person who could truly rat him out.”

“It would
also be a way to torture the old man forever,” added Deputy Steele.  “What’s
the quickest route to Madrigal’s house?”

“We can head
cross country on a couple of back roads and catch County 6,” said Zeb.  “Ángel
and Jimmie Joe might be there now.”

“How long
will it take us to get there?” asked Kate.

“Twenty
minutes, maybe twenty-five.”

“Lead the
way.  I’ll be right behind you.”     

Zeb called
Josh Diamond on his cell phone.  The service was spotty but he got through.

“Meet Deputy
Steele and me at the Madrigal place.”  He filled his old border patrol pal and
expert tracker in on what was going down.  “Bring your dogs.  We’ll need them.”

A steady
southerly crosswind blew Zeb’s dust and dirt trail away from Kate’s trailing
car as they headed west.  At County Road 6 both vehicles turned north.

Sheriff
Hanks assumed that either one or both of the suspects were going to be in the
oversized vehicle heading up the old Indian Flats Mine road, with a
disappearing act in mind.  He had Josh Diamond bring his dogs as he was expecting
they would ultimately end up tracking the criminals on foot.  Sheriff Hanks’
car-to-car radio buzzed.  

“Eskadi told
me the tribe has done a quite a bit of work to make sure no one drives on that
road,” said Deputy Steele.  “The Apache don’t want anyone in there, especially
us.”

“By making
the road impassable, Eskadi may have inadvertently done us a favor,” said the
sheriff.

At the
Madrigal house Sheriff Hanks pulled over and took a rifle from the trunk. 
Deputy Steele pulled in behind him. 

“I don’t see
any signs of life,” said the sheriff. 

They both
knew the layout of the Madrigal place.  The wind died down.  A strange
atmosphere permeated the homestead.  Inside the house the trail became red hot.

“The blood in the sink and on the towel is fresh,”
said Deputy Steele

“And so was
the vomit in the ditch.”

The lawmen
turned to see Josh Diamond standing in the doorway.

“Based on
two fresh sets of tire tracks,” said Josh.  “I’d say you got a big truck and a
small car that have been here recently.  Whoever was driving the small car is
wearing tennis shoes.  And, from the upchucked bile and blood, I’d say there is
a pretty good chance he’s got an ulcer. Care to bring me up to date?”

Zeb pulled
the map from his back pocket and laid it out on the kitchen table.

“The tracks
head north at the end of the driveway,” said Josh.  “The most likely route is
County Road 6 to Indian Route 11.  If they make it onto the reservation, they
have a thousand places to disappear.”

“I don’t
like the sounds of that,” said Zeb.  “We’ve got to see to it that they don’t
make it.   We don’t want to lose them up there.”

“What about
this old mining road that goes up to Indian Flats?” asked Josh.

“None of our
vehicles are going to get far on that road,” said Zeb.  “After three or four
miles it’s in real tough shape.  We likely will end up on foot.”

“My guess is
that’s where they are going. If they took off down that road, it won’t be hard
to tell. Let’s go have a look.  Deputy Steele, you go with Josh.  Josh, follow
me.”

A broad grin
swept across Josh Diamond’s face.

“Just like
old times, eh, Zeb.”

The sheriff
tipped his cap and hopped into his vehicle.  The look on his face was dead
serious.