Skorpio (19 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

"Like a Dog"

"Folks," Muriel said, "I'm closing up. Anybody needs a place to stay see Vern."

Ninja, Summer and Beadles followed the motellier out the door. For the first time Beadles saw Ninja's donk: a green and silver Chrysler 300 with suicide doors and huge, almost comical wheels and tires scraping against the underside of the body. It was wrapped in yellow plastic police tape with a neon orange sticker affixed to the windshield.

CRIME SCENE DO NOT TOUCH.

"Fuck y'all!" Ninja spat tearing off the tape and ripping the tag off the windshield. He removed a fob from his pocket and beeped the car unlocked. He got in the driver's seat and started the engine with a snarl. The passenger side window zipped down.

"Catch you later, Professor! Good luck!"

The big car zipped backwards into the middle of Main Street, the headlights flicked on and it rocked on down the road. When it was about twenty yards away booming bass shattered the night.

"Sheriff isn't gonna like this," Weatherill said.

They followed Weatherill up the slight incline beneath the flat port roof over the cracked asphalt. The motel was an L-shaped flat-top with the office and living quarters at the bottom and fourteen units. Weatherill led Beadles and Summer into the brightly lit office. A naugahyde sofa faced the small counter with a peeling coffee table in-between. There was a coffee maker on a sideboard and a soda machine.

Weatherill went behind the desk. "Who's stayin'?"

Beadles gave him his credit card. Rooms were $45.00. Weatherill gave him a key attached to brass fob with the room number. He pulled out his cell phone and the sheriff's card.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning," Summer said.

Beadles nodded, went outside and returned to his dirt-encrusted Jeep. He unlocked the tailgate, grabbed his overnighter, shut the gate and walked back up the hill. A faint light emanated from the unit next to his. He went inside, tossed his bag on the bed and went straight into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and took a hot shower. He dried off and put his jeans and shirt back on. It was almost midnight but he wasn't sleepy and didn't think he would be able to sleep.

Beadles sat on the bed, finished in a brown and turqouise Navajo pattern. He wished the bar hadn't closed. He needed a drink. His plans didn't include hanging around for a police investigation. If the news got out it would only come back and bite him on the ass--one more arrow in Liggett's quiver.

Christ, how did he get in this mess?

Soft rapping at the door. Beadles rose, inserted the chain and opened it. It was Summer. He took the chain off the hook and let her in. She carried her own bulging backpack.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't feel like being alone and I've got something I think you should see."

Beadles sat in the chair next to the little round table, indicated for her to have a seat. "What's on your mind?"

Summer set the backpack on the table, opened it and removed a quart bottle of bourbon. "Would you like a drink?"

Beadles grinned. "You read my mind."

She poured a couple fingers into two plastic glasses. "You want ice?"

"Neat is fine."

Summer handed Beadles a glass and sat in the other chair beneath a framed black and white Ansel Adams.

"You're gonna need another set of hands," she said, holding up her cup. They touched and drank.

"Ever been on a dig?" Beadles said.

"No. But I make jewelry and I'm good with my hands."

She looked damned good for midnight. "You said you had something I ought to see."

Summer reached into the backpack and withdrew what looked like the Shroud of Turin, folded. It was made from some animal skin and creaked as she unfolded it on the table. Beadles switched on the overhead lamp and stood to look at it. It took him mere seconds to realize what it is.

"Holy shit," he said almost reverently. "This is it, isn't it? This is deGama's map! Where'd you get it?"

"It was in Vince's car. He thinks he's an antiquarian dealer among his many other talents."

For some minutes Beadles regarded the map in silence, his finger hovering like a plumb line. It found the butte. Beadles leaned until his nose was inches from the map. He could barely discern a series of squiggly lines radiating from the butte but they were there.

"Do you see these lines?"

Summer stood next to him and looked. Her scent drove him mad. "What lines?"

His finger traced the pattern. "These squiggly lines radiating from the butte."

"No."

Beadles reached into his pocket and withdrew the gold medallion. He held it out to her. Summer cradled it in her palm. "This is gold."

"Yes."

She reached beneath her shirt and withdrew the medallion Grampa had given her. "Mine's ceramic."

Beadles fingered the ceramic. "Where did you get this?"

"An old friend of the family. A medicine man. He said it would keep me safe."

She looked up, lips parted. Beadles cupped her head in his hand and kissed her. They came together like magnetic dogs. There was an awkward dance to the bed. Summer knelt and pulled off her shirt revealing high, firm breasts. She had a tat on her ass of a butterfly. Pants and shirts hit the floor.

Just before he inserted himself Beadles said, "Are you practicing any form of birth control?"

"I've been spayed," Summer said guiding him in. "Like a dog."

***

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

"Champion"

She lay in the crook of his arm, black hair fanned across the pillow.

"Holy fuck," he said.

"I'm not a whore," she said, more to herself than him.

Beadles turned his head. "Who said you were?"

Summer sighed and trailed her fingers across his chest. "Sorry. I have a self-image problem."

"Not with me."

"I was working at a topless joint. Vince turned me out but I only did two tricks for him. Because I was afraid of him and I thought I loved him. How fucked up is that?"

"Don't beat yourself up," Beadles said. "We all make mistakes. We're all flawed human beings."

"Is it true you're part Indian?"

Shame flushed through his veins. "No. I lied because I thought it would help my career. I didn't think they'd ever check it out and they never did. They're so desperate for fucking diversity, excuse my French."

Summer laughed. "I bet I can out-curse you."

"I'll bet you can."

"I may have slept with a couple guys out of desperation but I was never a whore."

"No one said you were."

"Vince said it. All the time. Everyone expected it of me where I come from. Even my folks. You know what they used to call me in high school? Princess Thunderfuck."

"They used to call me The Beetle 'til I beat the crap out of them."

"So," she said wrapping her fingers around his arm. "What's the plan?"

"What plan?"

"For tomorrow, y'know? What are we going to do? I think we should hit the road early."

There was that "we" again. Once again Beadles found himself in bed with a strange woman only this time he couldn't sneak out on her. She had the map and she was far too street-wise to let him rip her off. Just beneath the luscious curves lurked hard edges. Well maybe she should come along. He could use another pair of hands and she was more than agreeable as a bed warmer. He hadn't asked her if she had any STDs.
Too late for that, you old horndog.

She would have told him, right?

Summer was right. There was no point hanging around for more trouble. Beadles had nothing to do with the shooting and he'd told the sheriff all there was to say.

"Have you hiked before?"

Summer gave him the stiff arm. "I grew up on the res. I used to race the boys to school--four miles on foot. I've been hitting the gym four times a week for the last six years. I'm in better shape than you are! And my physiology is probably better-suited to the desert, white man."

"All right. Ninja was crazy to think we could get in and out in one day. We don't know if there are even any roads back there. We'll see how far we get. I've got the site dialed in on the GPS. We can always take it with us if we have to walk."

Summer shivered. "People die out there. You heard that story about the two college kids. Isn't that creepy?"

"People die all the time. I can carry twenty-five gallons of water in the Jeep. Shoulda brought two mountain bikes. Think we can get any around here?"

"In this shit hole?" Summer said. "I doubt it. Where'd you get that amulet? Think there's any gold out there?"

"It was part of the collection I was cataloging when they fired me. I didn't have a chance to return it."

"And now it's too late, huh?" Summer said. "May I see it again?"

Beadles leaned over, snagged his jeans and dug out the medallion, feeling its weight in his hand. Had to be an ounce. He handed it to Summer who held it up and examined it with childish glee.

"Wow. Real gold. Wow. Grampa told me I have Azuma blood."

Beadles looked at her surprised. "You know about the Azuma?"

"Only from Grampa. He's not really my grampa. He's a very old medicine man. I went to see him before coming here. He said I had to find Shipapu. He said I would find a champion. I thought it was this other guy but it wasn't. Maybe it's you. I'm hoping it's you."

Beadles barked. "Sorry to break it to you, kid. I ain't no champion." There was that time in college, a bunch of jocks hassling an androgynous hippy. Beadles surprised himself by breaking it up. He and the hippie became friends and later the guy tutored Beadles in geometry. He'd done it without expectation of reward. He'd never liked those jocks. Maybe that was his reward. But as he gazed back at the map of his life there were few incidents of altruism and a great deal of opportunism. The cupboard was bare. Oh sure, the generous tip, helping a girlfriend change a tire, helping friends move. Any sociopath would have done the same.

"You're my champion," she sighed, her hand trailing across his chest. They slept. As was always the case when he had to share a bed, Beadles did not sleep well. He fell into a shallow sleep in which he was stumbling across the baking desert shielding his eyes from the merciless sun.

Summer was in it too.

***

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

"Dead Burro"

A ballistic nylon mesh separated the front of Sheriff Conway's cruiser from the rear seat. The rear doors lacked lock and window buttons. A laminated ID of the sheriff was affixed to the dash board like a cab license. A shotgun jutted up butt first in the passenger footwell. Vince sat on the right side testing the amount of play he had in his wrists and arms. He had to get the cuffs around to the front in order to get them off.

"Sheriff Rupe," the radio squawked. "We got multiple collisions out here by Saguaro Corner. Some tourist didn't slow down and ran into the rear of that semi. We sure could use a hand out here."

"No can do, Charlie," the sheriff replied. "I'm transporting a suspect to the jail. We had a homicide at The Last Chance. Ahmina need some help with this one."

"Well shit, Rupe," the radio said. "Looks like we'll be pulling another all-nighter."

"Do me a favor, Charlie. See what you got on Vince Sealy, got a Nevada license number…" He picked up the notepad while driving, flipped on the overhead lamp. He read the number.

"Roger wilco," Charlie said. "Maybe you can get out there after you get this guy booked?"

"I will advise once the prisoner is secured. Adios."

They rode in silence through the desert beneath the light of a million stars.

"I had no choice, sheriff. That dude pulled a gun on me."

"Son, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"I know that. But I'm pretty confident they're gonna throw this out. And maybe you get a black mark for making a bad call."

"Won't be the first time," the sheriff said. "But since you're in a loquacious mood, mind telling me what you were doing out there in the first place?"

"Summer Funderburg stole my car. She used to be my girlfriend. I want my car back, that's all."

"Did you file a police report?"

Vince looked out the window at the undulating darkness. "No."

"Why not?"

"I love her. I don't want her to go to jail."

"How many times you been arrested, son? Might as well tell me. Ahmina find out anyway."

"Three times. Once for disturbing the peace and twice for assault. Both assault cases were thrown out. They both came from bitter patrons I ejected from various establishments when I worked as a bouncer."

"You never served jail time?"

Vince bit his lip.

"Might as well tell me. Ahmina find out anyway."

"I did a week for assaulting an officer."

"Okay, I'm sorry I asked. You'd better shut up now. What in Sam Hill is this?"

The sheriff slowed and pulled off the dirt road. Vince strained his neck and saw a dark bulk in the middle of the road. The sheriff left his headlights on, grabbed a big cell flash and got out. The object rested about ten feet in front of the car. The sheriff walked around it shining the light. All Vince saw was an indistinct shape as he rocked on his haunches and worked the cuffs to the front.

From there it was a cinch to deploy the zipper/key. The cuffs came off. Vince stuffed them between the seat cushions.

The sheriff walked back to the car. "Now why a burro would choose that as his final resting place is beyond me. I'd better set out a flare. No telling who'll come along."

"Say sheriff! I got to take a piss."

The sheriff looked at Vince, off toward town and back again. He came around and opened the rear door. Vince had his hands behind him.

"Here's what we're gonna do. Ahmina put on a pair of gloves and free your dick from your drawers. You don't like it you can pee in your pants. Ain't nothin' to me. And it don't mean I like ya."

Vince grinned gratefully. "No prob, sheriff." He swung his legs out, corkscrewed up and punched the sheriff on the mouth hard enough to break his jaw.

Spitting, the sheriff went down fumbling for his Glock. Vince brought his boot up and smashed the sheriff's nuts into gravy. The man curled up like a carpet worm and began to breath high and reedy and fast. Vince thought maybe he was having a heart attack.

Vince watched the sheriff go bug-eyed and wheeze. He gasped like a gaffed fish. It was taking too long. Vince reached out and removed the Glock from its holster, tossiug it onto the open back seat of the cruiser. Vince planted his right knee on the sheriff's throat leaning down with all his weight. It was over pretty quick.

Vince looked around. The road was deserted. Vince got his legs under him, lifted the sheriff beneath the arms and dumped him in the back of the cruiser. Vince got behind the wheel and drove off the road across the gently undulating desert to a ridge a quarter mile in. He drove around the ridge until he found what he was looking for. He unloaded the sheriff in a dried-up wadi. He thought of covering the body with brush and rocks but what would that accomplish?

Once the sun rose the birds would come whether he was buried or not. Vince looked down at the lifeless khaki-clad form. He'd neglected to mention he'd served nine months in prison for assaulting a police officer. He'd always hated pigs. He went through the Sheriff's pockets and found ninety bucks. He unzipped his pants and pissed on the body.

Singing "I Shot the Sheriff" in a surprising falsetto Vince got in the cruiser and headed back toward The Last Chance.

***