Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (19 page)

Adam left the road and walked towards the cornfield, kicking up a shower of dead leaves as he went. Slats of sunlight passed between the trees and his eyes were almost shut against the glare. He thought of running away, only when the feeling came his heart was heavy like it was the wrong thing to do.

Ramsey was too sick to move and besides, the rangers might have killed him in the night. Even the dog knew what Adam was thinking, black eyes searching in that way dogs do. If he could speak he would say something fun like, ‘race me to the woods,’ or ‘what’s for dinner,’ or ‘you throw and I’ll fetch,’ because he was already gripping a gnarly old stick in that mouth of his.

Adam could hear the rumble of traffic on the highway and he wondered how far it was. How wrong would it be to stand on the hard shoulder and stick your thumb out? Grab a lift from a passing stranger. Tell them to call the police. In those three hours he had jostled with the idea of leaving the meds outside the hut and making a dash for it. But Ramsey was lying there all alone. He needed those pills, he needed a clean bandage.

Adam took out that phone, dialed his mom again. A dialing tone and sometimes a lady came on and said the call could not be completed as dialed. There was only one bar out there in the woods and he couldn’t hold the phone high enough to get any more. Least, that’s how they did it in the movies. Stand on rocks and wave it about. He snapped the thing shut and slipped it back into his pocket.

Murphy stopped and lowered his head and dropped the stick, taking a scent of something he couldn’t see. He was an old dog. A smart dog. He’d found Adam, hadn’t he?

And that was strange. Or a miracle. Or a bit of both. When Adam got to thinking, Murphy had appeared just after he had prayed. God must have had a hand in it like He had a hand in everything. God was old and God was smart.

Snap!

There was a ridge along the old dog’s back now, one foot lifted, body half hunkered down. Adam squatted behind a tree, pushed his hand out against the bark to keep his balance. There was something up ahead where the path rolled away, a blackened shape rising up and down in the murk, moving unseen between the sun’s tracks.

There was no sound but the wind in those bare trees. Leaves twisted and fell from a dark gray sky and snowflakes gusted off a branch overhead. Silly isn’t it when you’re walking alone in a wood how you can see things, hear things, and you get to wondering if there’s someone else out there. Watching.

Angels watch, Adam thought. He wasn’t sure what they looked like, whether they were frightening or just covered in sparkles with feathery wings. Whether they were seven feet tall or just as ordinary as your next door neighbor. But whatever it was had gone. There was no sign of it now.

He had the uncanny feeling it was hiding, but he plodded on as far as the curve in the trail. Murphy’s head was soft, especially that part between his ears and Adam wanted to take off his gloves and stroke him. But it was too cold. The air smelled of ice just after you’ve opened the freezer and it was sifting down his neck and into his bones.

Snap!

Adam held his breath, wrapping one hand around Murphy’s grunting mouth and pressing it to his thigh. He only had to do it once. The old dog knew he had to be quiet. A sheer mist of snow seemed to hang over a tangled hedge and then it was gone.

Snap, snap!

Adam looked behind him and to the left and right. There was no moisture in his mouth now and he tried to swallow. It could have been a wolf sauntering along the path ahead. It could have been a dusky grouse. He took cover behind an aspen, each breath keeping time with his thumping heart. Straight ahead was a bristlecone pine and he focused between the leaves at a clearing beyond.

There… between two white skinned trees about twenty feet away was a man, glossy hair tied back in a ponytail beneath a black cap. He stood waist deep in buffalo grass, one hand nudging the rifle on his shoulder, the other splayed out like a divining rod. He wasn’t alone. There were four more nearby, chins raised, like they were watching something they didn’t believe. One man seemed to be studying a limp map, anchoring the page with one hand, lips moving.

Adam wanted to unsnap the throat of his coat and peel off that wooly hat. He lifted the rim up over one ear instead, wanted to hear. But the air was thin and biting, and it was getting darker. The first of them tilted his chin as high as it would go and closed his eyes, arms straight out like a wooden cross, mouth half open to taste the breeze. He was listening. Taking in the smells and sounds. Watching for signs. If these were the men Ramsey called rogue rangers, they looked nothing like the old bearded men Adam imagined.

The light was failing now and a crack of thunder in the distance made him gasp. The first ranger snapped his head to one side, body lit by a flare of lightening. His eyes seemed to dance over the foliage, until they stopped about three feet from where Adam crouched.

He pulled a knife from his belt, squatted suddenly, hand hovering over the grass again and lower still as if tracing a set of footprints.

Adam knew those eyes were searching through the leaves and the ranger would sense any movement, track any scent. There were rifles on their shoulders big enough for mule deer or elk, only these men were fanned out like they were searching for something smaller. Adam opened his mouth to breath, looked down at Murphy and shook his head. Hail rattled against the leaves and then the rain came blotting out any noise they could have made. But the ranger hunkered there as if he knew his quarry would tire of hiding.

Adam slid to a sitting position, thighs trembling from the weight of his pack. He wedged himself in good and hard against that tree, hand patting the air once for Murphy to lie down, one finger raised for combat silence. The dog obeyed.

The ranger stood again, gripping that knife and holding it out in front. He gestured to the others with a nod of his head and they became shadows, slogging down a south facing slope towards a stream and fading into the distance. The first ranger waited in that sea of grass, body lit up with each flash and then he waded forward, just a few steps at a time. He looked big. He looked quick. He didn’t make a sound.  

Murphy’s tongue began darting in and out of his mouth, ears pricked to the threat. His belly wasn’t all the way to the ground, front legs at an angle and carrying the brunt of his weight. A shiny black snout twitched in the wind and when another sheer of lightning lit up the sky, the old dog wasted no time. He ducked beneath a canopy of leaves and stalked off, circling the man at a crouch.

Adam was surprised the man couldn’t see the dog, one minute a shadow, the next passing slowly between the tree trunks. The ranger turned a half-circle, then he turned back, knife glinting like a silver trout in a dark pool. He knew the dog was there. He just couldn’t see him.

Adam could feel his teeth chattering and his body was beginning to shake. His knees squelched through wet mud and he stumbled and fell forward under the weight of his pack. It was heavy, wedged against his spine like a turtle’s shell. Turning sideways, he could see Murphy hunkered down on a faint track, tongue pulsing through his teeth and he could see edge of the trees beyond and the silver-gray ruts of a ploughed field. If his gut was right, the hut wasn’t more than a mile away.

Murphy lunged forward again and ran a complete circle around the ranger, keeping to a ten foot boundary. He would keep this game up for as long as it took for Adam to break free. Herding, growling, snapping, padding about in the darkness and thwacking the leaves with his tail. 

Adam studied the leaning trees and the direction of the wind, and he could hear the beating rain against the canopy. He had two choices. Run for his life or find Ramsey. His feet dug for traction in the mud as he took his cue, racing for a narrow stream at the bottom of the slope, black as tar against the snow. He looked both ways and saw nothing except the beatific face of a big round moon in it’s reflection, no rangers, nothing.

He scrambled up the bank and veering towards his left, found a gap in the hedge and made a dash for the rutted farm track. All he knew was to get to Ramsey before the rangers did. Warn him so he could make a dash for it. He wouldn’t mind sleeping in the leaves with his pack as a pillow. He wouldn’t mind because Murphy was there.

Murphy burst through a clump of grass, sneezing and wagging his tail. It was good to have a friend. But it was the name tag that chimed against the red collar that worried Adam, so he unclipped it and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

They hurried along the track, keeping to the ditch beneath the trees. Murphy had mapped it all in his head, found another broken branch and held it in his mouth. He’d even found the hut, tried to nudge his way in with that stick, only he got wedged in the doorway.

Adam expected to find a pile of stinking old rags. Instead, there was Ramsey propped up against the wall, feeding logs through the open door of the pot-belly stove. The gun was on the floor, toothbrush stained with the solvent he’d used. He’d decanted some of the water into two plastic bottles and there were crumbs from a protein bar in his beard. The tear in his jeans was gaping like an open mouth and the wound was soft and yellow and weeping.

“I told you to bring meds not a dog!”

It never occurred to Adam that he would have to tell Ramsey about the dog. “I found him on the road. So… you’re not dead then.”

Ramsey gave a guttural laugh and shook his head. “It would take a lot to kill me. You should know that by now. And you? You came back. Could have run away. Could have called the cops. Aren’t you going to take your coat off?”

Adam stood there breathing out a warm mist between his lips. “The rangers. They’re here.”

Malin pulled into Puerta de Corrales where the boughs of a large cottonwood creaked in the wind. She parked in front of her apartment, a two story building with brown stucco walls and white frame windows, all floodlit by a single halogen lamp. It was the next block to Sergeant and Rae Moran, close enough for company, distant enough for solitude.

Turning off the ignition, she noticed a brown sedan backed into a corner, license plate flush against a low brick wall. A domestic violence situation, she could sniff them out a mile away. If she ordered a registration check it would be in the name of Laura Glass, small, blond and well into her sixth boyfriend since Malin had moved in. The girl was nice enough, lived downstairs next to Old Man Topper, worked as a seamstress during the day and an exotic dancer at night.

Malin gripped the handrail and took the stairs to the second floor, hand resting on the holster at her waist. She wasn’t jumpy, just a little wary that’s all. It was the wind whistling through the bannisters and playing a mournful strain and she walked to her front door, turning slightly to see if anyone had been following her.

It always smelled of mold, even in the summer, and there was a hint of roast chicken that drifted up the stairwell and she could still smell it in the living room after closing the front door. The kettle was full and slipping a hand behind the lip of the countertop, she flipped the switch.

Unzipping her jacket, she hooked it over a chair and switched on the TV. It was that anchor again, the man with the voice like a game show host.

“ . . . Troop 173 has joined the search in the Bosque for Adam Oliver and another search is underway in Gila National Forest. The FBI have sent agents to the scene along with several Shadow Wolf officers from the Navajo nation. Although Mayor Oliver is still in critical condition, his wife and family hold out hope that Adam is still alive and due to regular scouting activities, able to withstand the punishing terrain. The police have not ruled out the possibility of a connection with the Ringmaster murders in 2001 but caution it is too early to draw any conclusions at this time. Anyone with any information can call the number at the bottom of the screen or go to NWAC dot com.”

Malin muted the volume and kicked off her shoes, listening to the purr of the kettle. The last thing the family needed was any connection to the Ringmaster murders.

She stared long and hard at that laptop, suddenly afraid of it, suddenly curious. Better get it over with, she told herself. When she signed in there were four emails, all junk except for one. WingMan had sent her an invitation to chat. 

She began typing a reply to his earlier message and then deleted it. It was hard to relax when you’re on a dating site and the man you’ve been talking to is not who you thought he was. She felt a nudge of dread, heard the click of the kettle and walked into the bathroom. He knew the case. That made him a cop.

As she showered, she realized how much she hated this feeling, worrying about what to say. Sending an invitation the minute she signed into Heartfree was overkill. There was a dozen possibilities, of course. Fowler, Jarvis . . .

She pulled the housecoat off the back of the bathroom door, cinched the belt tightly and walked into the kitchen. The tea was hot against her lips and she sat in front of that computer, staring at the message. It was longer than she expected.

Where have you been, my little dove? Here I was thinking you were lost forever. It wasn’t the same without you yesterday. Nobody to talk to. This is our third date. Perhaps you don’t want them finding out such a respectable lady like you uses a chat site. Or that you used to be an escort. Do they even know, Malin? No, of course not. But I know everything. What I don’t know I find out. And what I find out I barter with.

It was odd that this person, who knew so much about her, should be messaging her in the first place. And equally odd that she had no idea who he was. The feeling of fear was so overwhelming, she caught the taste of bile before that cup of tea almost came up. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment and then she typed:
Who are you?

You said you knew.

She punched her thigh with a tight fist and berated herself for falling for it. Again.

I’m a ghost in broad daylight. I don’t like spectators, you see. But you need a wingman, someone to watch your back.

What do you want?

You want to know who took Adam Oliver. I can help you with that. What would be a fitting price?

Name it.

Let’s get to know each other first. Feel comfortable. Talk. Go deeper. Then I’ll tell you what I want.

His words echoed in her mind and, she suspected, would continue to do so until she was free of it. She wondered what he looked like, whether he pursed his lips, whether he smiled or even laughed at her. She wondered why she was allowing this conversation, this closeness, this stupidity. She wondered if she was safe.
What are the consequences?

Consequences always spoil everything, don’t they? Three strikes and you’re out. First, is anyone monitoring your computer?

No.

Why did I think you’d say that?

I haven’t told anyone.

And you won’t. Not if Adam’s life is at stake. I know you better than you think I do. Forgive me if I’m being unkind.

With a strange sense of intuition, it occurred to her then that she didn’t know this man at all. His words came back to her with repetitive insistence.
Forgive me if I’m being unkind.
It wasn’t Fowler with his obvious charms, it wasn’t bumbling Jarvis playing jokes, couldn’t have been. This man was stealth reincarnate and he had an eidetic memory. She typed:
You don’t know me.

I know you prefer Jasmine tea rather than Chai. You don’t take sugar. Like everything black. You love Key Lime Pie. You eat at Corrales Café in the late afternoons not because it’s close to home, because it’s company. You sit on the patio where you can hear the wind in the cottonwoods, see the sunlight through the canvas shades. It makes you feel part of the action like you have a choice. And you always back your car in under that tree.

You’re stalking me.

Everyone stalks their favorite heroes and you’re mine.

You’re a coward hiding behind a fake name and a silhouette. Anyone would think you’re afraid of me.

Perhaps I am. It was so wonderful then, in the old days. I wish you could remember. They were the golden years of which every year since has been only the palest shadow and every year past is wasted. You’ll grow to love the silhouette because you can think of me in those precious moments and wonder who I really am. And when you know me better, you’ll dream of me.

You’re so full of it.

Now, let’s get back to business. How does an affair begin? With a glance, a thought. You gape at the sheer beauty and suddenly only that one person stands out to you. For some reason you worship them, as he did. Every day you’re standing in the presence of the greatest thing under the sun, catching every word, every nuance. For days, months, it is almost too much to bear and the distance becomes torture. Last night, I lay thinking about him trying to pinpoint exactly when she betrayed him. When he truly lost her. I tried to reconstruct the scene in my head, the last month together, mad with pain knowing it had to come to an end. Because she did betray him, Malin, when she took another.  You have to understand he was obsessed and leaving was the only option. He wasn’t good enough for her. He wasn’t good enough for the perfect army. And so my question is this. When does a man fully surrender? When does he crash?

Malin remembered something her mother once said, when she begged her to go to church. ‘He’ll break you, bring you to your knees. And when you’re at your lowest, when you can’t go any lower… that’s when you’ll find Him’.”
When he is completely humbled.
 

Excellent. I knew you’d understand. He thought he had her. He thought it was a home run. But he was wrong. Something snapped in him that day, brought him lower than he had ever been. A time to examine himself. A time to fight back. Years later, that’s why he took Adam. Pay back.

She had a strange sense―the same one she used to have as a girl when she dared herself to open the cellar door, walk down a few steps only to turn around and run back up again. She had been followed by shadows then.
Who? Do you know him?

Tut, tut, Malin. That’s hardly detective work, is it? But here’s a little taste of what he is.

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

A poem. What’s in a poem? She shook her head. The words weren’t familiar and what it had to do with this kidnapper she couldn’t imagine. The spelling was English and
kirk
was an ancient sounding word. She was about to type when he beat her to it. 

Btw, Temeke’s an excellent detective. He bypassed quite a few big names to get where he is. I have first-hand experience. But he has one flaw, one terrible weakness. Break him and I’ll make you the best detective the world has ever seen. That’s what I want.

Temeke… he wanted to destroy Temeke. Her mind tried to unravel all the names she could possibly think of. Lawyers, judges, anyone who might have carried a grudge. There were a few.

You want to know who I am. You want a face. But it’s so much better this way. And one day you’ll thank me. One day, you may even say those three words I’ve been longing to hear.

Malin fully expected him to sign off. He’d dangled the first carrot, given her something to chew on. She could almost imagine the magnanimous tilt of his head, an offhand gesture, a sultry look. But the face was always blank. To her surprise he typed four more lines.

The sun came up upon the left,

Out of the sea came he!

And he shone bright, and on the right

Went down into the sea.