Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (10 page)

The sky was beginning to darken and there were amber streaks above the Sandia Mountains. The crest was now covered in powdered snow and all Malin could think about was a boy out there in the wilderness with a collar turned up against the cold.

It had been another long day of phone calls, internet searches and interviews. She could have done with a rush of cold air, good clean air, especially with Temeke fogging up the office with a half smoked cigarette he’d found under his chair. The office was almost empty except for four officers downstairs and the impact Sargent who had latterly gone out to get them a sandwich.

She watched the phone, wondered when forensics would confirm the voice on the Trader tape with the Oliver tape. Since they didn’t have a suspect, they didn’t need a court order. But the chief of the voiceprints unit in the forensics lab in Chicago was one of Malin’s heroes. Audrey De Becker made you feel like you were in the presence of royalty. She had more than twenty-five years in forensic science, including the US Secret Service and the Internal Revenue Service. Malin wondered whether she should stand and salute when she took the call.

For the past four hours she had studied the Ringmaster murder books from cover to cover, tacked all those grisly photographs to the cork board and said nothing in between. And now Temeke was on the phone, saying one word over and over again.

“Yep… yep… yep...”

He finally put the phone down and pursed his lips.

“Talk to me,” Malin said.

“That was Officer Running Hawk. Found a broken compass. Looks like our Adam’s been leaving crumbs again.”

“How long has it been there?”

“He reckoned three or four days. Said they found some flattened grass, possibly a tent. There was a forked branch low to the ground. Great for sitting in and doing your business. And they found that business hidden in a shallow hole. Two types.”

“How can they tell?”

“Different color’s what Running Hawk said. Two people. Two sets of foot prints. One an adult, size eleven, lug sole. One a child, size nine, weight bearing on the left side. They were walking fast. He could tell by the stride length.”

“And the dog?” She asked, knowing Temeke wouldn’t have asked.

“He didn’t mention any paw prints.”

Malin wanted to pump the air, but it wasn’t over yet. The news gave her a rush of hope, a feeling they were finally getting somewhere. “He might still be alive, sir.”

“If he is, then something’s changed.” David looked up at the map and frowned. Then looked at his watch. “Forensics should have called us an hour ago about that voice comparison.”

Temeke’s mouth was pursed around a cigarette and he was trying to balance on the two back legs of his chair, only the wheels prevented any acrobatics. “Better hope Adam’s not popped to the eyeballs on drugs.”

She had a chance to see what a real detective looked like close up and this one, she thought, was solid, tough and sour, head tilted back and eyes closed for a moment.

“Mrs. Oliver,” Temeke murmured. “It’s something deep down inside, one of those distant voices you ignore and then wish you hadn’t. Why do you think the kidnapper decided to pull off a ransom? And why did he make contact with the victim’s father?”

Malin noted Temeke didn’t refer to the kidnapper as the Ringmaster. “Because Adam’s father is a prominent figure.”

“It’s not like there’s blood and teeth all over the floor. He was a bloody bad shot.”

“Well, there’s two dead pilots and a missing boy.” Malin flapped a hand to dispel the smoke. “You just don’t like toffs. Isn’t that what you call them?”

“Mrs. Oliver said when she called 911, she saw the time on her cell phone. Not the clock,” Temeke muttered.

Any significance was lost on Malin. All she could think about was Mrs. Oliver in her scrubs in the operating theater on Sunday night. Never even knew her husband was bleeding on the floor at home and her own child was tied up in a truck with a madman and headed for who-knows-where. She tried not to think of Adam’s face… his screams… Choked back a few tears, wasn’t going to show herself up in front of Temeke.

“Remember the graffiti outside the Mayor’s house?” he said, sighing deeply and flicking ash into an empty coffee cup.

Malin remembered the case. Three years ago, someone sprayed graffiti on the Mayor’s limo, the pavement outside his front gate and then climbed over the wall and did the same thing on his front door. “Mark Hogan. Nutter. Hates Republicans. Doesn’t have the brain capacity to pull off a kidnap like this.”

“What about the time when Oliver traveled to D.C. in his private jet and they had that bomb scare. All flights were grounded.”

“Douglas Cordova, former press secretary. Still inside.”

“He might have a friend on the outside, Marl. Prisoners do, you know.” Temeke screwed up his eyes and stared at his computer. “Mayor Oliver’s got an impressive résumé. Even had an ex-wife.”

“She died four years after they married,” Malin said, staring at her own computer. “Breast cancer.”

“Eagle Scout, Navy SEAL, Harvard. Seems our Mayor’s done some great things. Homeless initiatives, higher graduation rates for high school students, economic opportunities. They’ve estimated savings in the millions. You only have to look at the I-25 project and the crime rate. And what’s more, Albuquerque is the second highest area in terms of economic growth. He ought to be the best mayor we’ve ever had.” Temeke went quiet and then, “There’s some on the west wall now.”

“Some what?”

“Graffiti. Happened last night. Says
‘Murderers work here. Thanks to the effing DCPD.’
And beneath it,
‘I’m still not loving the police’.
Do you think everyone hates us?”

“Some people don’t trust cops.”

“I don’t trust cops.” Temeke let out a big sigh. “Fergus the bleeding flasher. At least the dirty old bugger didn’t trip the alarm at two in the morning. It happens when you pee against the glass.”

Malin was glad Temeke had spent the night at home, glad he was showered and shaved and in a better mood than he had been in days. Glad his mind was ticking over every detail and every tiny speck of dust.

The wind dropped and everything was quiet. Even the evening sky glowed a misty orange behind the building and there was that nagging feeling the office belonged entirely to them.

“Where’s Hackett?” she said and then wished she hadn’t.

“Kept up all last night listening to Fowler’s squeaky voice. Apparently,” Temeke said, taking the last hit from that tiny cigarette, “he was supposed to be combing the woods around 3265 Forest Road with a few of his old cronies when agent Anderson found him behind a tree with Gloria Pacheco, you know, from special weapons. Anderson told the sod he was fiddling with evidence and wrote him up.”

Malin waved the inappropriate comment away with one hand and still blew out a few short snorts. She needed the break just as much as he did. “How does Fowler know Hollister?”

“They’re both captains, love.”

What? Wait… did he say captain? How like Temeke to lob that little grenade. “Hollister’s a captain now?”

“Got promoted three weeks ago.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.” Temeke blew a large smoke ring towards the ceiling and dropped the cigarette in his coffee cup. He squinted at the thermostat. “Bloody budget cuts. Never mind me freezing my ass off over here. I need coffee.”

“Sounds like you’ve had enough rocket fuel for one day.”

The phone rattled on her desk. It was Flossy from Fingerprinting. The only prints on Adam’s cell phone were his. Malin ended the call and groaned as she relayed the bad news to Temeke.

The honk of Sarge’s car cut through the silence and Malin sauntered over to the window. The SUV nosed its way around the dumpster and came to a stop in its usual parking spot. The red brake lights glowed an angry red in the darkness before fading to black.

“He’s here,” she said.

Sargent Moran took his time climbing those stairs, knocked on the door and gave Malin a steaming bag of hamburgers. He gave Temeke a curt nod as he stood in the doorway.

“You look happy, Sarge,” Temeke said. “Has Fowler resigned?”

“No, it’s better than that. Forensics just called about those voiceprints. There’s a match.”

Adam tried to move his hands, but the bindings held fast and bit into his flesh. His feet were tied at the ankles and the best he could do was wriggle his toes. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and urine, and it made his stomach heave.

The old man sat cross-legged on the ground, sharpening a knife and muttering. Occasionally, he looked up at the opposite wall, a lattice of wooden strips, where two large meat hooks hung and where dark pools of animal blood had collected at the footing.

Adam saw the bones then, curved and ribbed like a spine and vertebrae stacked in a neat little pile. There was a large wooden mallet and a coil of rope with snaps and grabs, and a tattered shirt hanging on a hook with a red and white patch on the sleeve.
New Mexico Game Patrol
it said, and underneath the word,
Ranger
.

Adam wanted to scream, wanted to shout. But it was those dark stains on the latticework, evidence of a bloody suffering that stopped his mouth. Four rifles were propped up in the corner, antique by the look of them and hopefully too old to fire. He couldn’t see a thing through the wattle and wondered how dark it was outside. Whether the clouds had covered the moon, whether Ramsey would ever find him in the darkness. He wondered why the old man muttered, why he sharpened that knife. Why those arms of stringy muscle shook sometimes.

There was another scent, bitter and thick like the smoke from a campfire. Ramsey was bound to smell it and come running. Unless there were other rogue rangers out there skinning the big man this very minute.

Dread crept through Adam as he hung there, heart beating faster than usual, breaths ragged and quick. The old man must have heard all that anxious panting because he turned slightly, looked like he was half sick with pity. Then he puckered his face into the most serious of expressions as if Adam needed a different type of comforting he couldn’t provide.

Somewhere beyond the daub and wattle that separated him from the outside world, Adam heard a shrill whistle. The old man heard it too, tensed and struggled to stand. His joints popped as he found his feet, back hunched a little towards the sound. He was wearing a long woolen coat, the type military men wore and his beard was tangled with leaves.

“Coyotes,” he said, raising a hand that didn’t appear to have a thumb. “They can smell yer blood.”

He glanced one way and then another as if catching an unfamiliar scent. And then he shook his head as if he knew it was man-made. There was someone out there.

Adam let out a pent-up breath and then held in another. He’d use it soon to scream. But not yet. Not until the old man was far enough away to let that scream count.

The old man crept towards a burlap drape, knife out in front, trembling like a dowsing rod. He seemed to angle his ear to another sound, a click this time like the locking in of a magazine.

Adam took shallow rattled breaths, working himself to a scream. “Ram-
sey
!”

Something crashed through the wattle six feet from where the old man stood and bringing with it the sudden flush of moonlight.

“Get off my land before I hit yer!” the old man said, knife-hand extended like an eagle’s claw. There was a trail of saliva on that big red beard and a cough wheezed through jagged teeth. 

“Your land?” Ramsey’s face was knotted with amusement as he stood next to Adam. He waved his gun to show the man what he was about, leveled it right at him. “Boy’s mine.”

“Gimme the boy. I’ll pay you plentee.”

“What with?” Ramsey said, squeezing the trigger. “It’s not like you’ve got a clink of change in that old coat.”

The man pointed his ear to the ground and shook his head as if something rattled around in there. “I’ll give you fifty for ‘m.”

“He’s not worth it. This one has fits.”

Adam couldn’t make head or tail of the conversation and he felt a might queasy at being the object of a sale.

“Tie ‘m up with yer belt.” The old man’s voice was cold and crisp, like skates on ice. “Won’t bite yer then.”

Adam sensed Ramsey’s fury mounting, saw the twitch in his jaw and neck. The old man had no chance against a man all muscles and murder. He’d be dead if he came any closer.

But the old man’s eyes were squinty and strange, and he took a few steps forward. “Won’t shoot me. Got no balls, have yer?”

Ramsey raised one eyebrow, muzzle moving in now and aimed the man’s shoulder. He said nothing. Just stared and stood straight as a statue.

“Robbin’ me blind at fifty. An’ I got cold cash back there. Venison too.”

“Back where?”

The man opened his eyes and in them was the mania of a rabid dog. He sprang for the gun, dug that knife good and deep into Ramsey’s thigh. But Ramsey was too quick for him. A sudden
crack
and the man was thrown backwards onto the ground, one hand clutching a bloody shoulder.

Adam saw the tip of Ramsey’s hunting knife as it sawed through the twine at his shoulder, each strand popping from his arms and legs.

“Run!” Ramsey yelled.

Adam didn’t need to be told twice. Bolting down the slope, he came to a stop at the edge of a wide stream with flat rocks to walk on. He closed his ears to the screams. Left there with his own thoughts.

Ramsey was probably using that serrated hunting knife in his belt now, slashing, biting, ripping. Probably sawing the man’s head off with a few hard tugs.

Hands pressed tighter against his ears, Adam watched bubbles as they rose to the surface from an underground spring, skating along the current and vanishing altogether. He began to cry, began to whimper. He didn’t know what to do or where to go. He could run back the way he had come, he could even find the lodge. But the ginger man would only get him, pull his heart out of his rib cage with his bare hands. Adam wondered if he should run north towards the cliffs. It was in those precious moments that he hesitated.

Ramsey shuffled out through the leaves behind him, dark stains on his cheeks and forehead, gun in his belt.

“Here, take this” he said, handing Adam a rolled up raincoat. “Meat and money,” was all he said.

Ramsey merely rubbed those stains off with the back of his hand, took out his binoculars to scan the country that lay to the north and a big moon that tracked the cliffs. His leg was bloody and so where his jeans.

“What happened?” Adam said.

Ramsey wouldn’t say. Just kept repeating how sorry he was. How he thought the bastard lived in Albuquerque, not over here. How he should have known the madman would return to his old hunting ground just to gloat over his trophies.

Ramsey staggered and Adam walked along the edge of that stream until they found a boat. Ramsey put their pack in the stern and told Adam to jump in at the bow. He paddled out to the middle where the current was strong.

It was wide enough to be a river now with cliffs on either side. Sometimes curling north, sometimes curling west. Adam heard the chuckle of water under the bow, felt the breeze in his face. It was warmer in that boat and a whole lot comfier too and he let his face rest against the pack.

It was long into the night before Adam felt a hand on his shoulder and awoke to Ramsey’s voice. They tied up the boat and made for a sandy bank, navigating across flat stones and boulders to the other side. Ramsey filled up the gallon jug and he gave that leg a good old rinsing. They were met by a north-facing cliff painted with hunchbacked figures playing flutes with a crown of feathers on their heads.

Adam stared at them for a time, heart soaring in his chest. They were ancient rock paintings.

“It’s still a ways,” Ramsey said. He pointed to where the cliff ended abruptly and curled down to a well-worn path. He handed Adam the gallon jug, gave him the first sip of water.

Adam followed Ramsey along a narrow strip of mud and wet grass, hugging the cliffs until the path turned gently into a small canyon. Above them was a steep mesa which reminded Adam of a stadium where the roof was no more than a jutting lip. It was blue and silver in the moonlight, wind rushing through the piñon and kicking up a moan here and there. He wasn’t as scared as he was before, not with wilderness-man leading the way on that hobbling leg.

Ramsey paused at a fork in the path, taking the higher route, hand reaching down to haul Adam up the slopes. It was hard going in the dark with the packs on their backs and the climb was steeper than Adam realized, shoes tapping against loose rock for what seemed like hours.

Ramsey paused before a wooden ladder leading to a smooth ledge, finger jabbing the air in an upward motion.

“Get up there,” he said, sweat dripping off his lip, “before the lightning comes.”