Zuni Stew: A Novel (20 page)

Jack stood, spread his legs, fired.

The entire back window shattered as the bullet continued, blowing off Mike’s right ear. He screamed. Blood spurted. His hand on the gearshift slipped, shifting into neutral. Lori leapt for the passenger door. Tires spun. Smoked. Knapp was on the floor, hands covering his head. Ignoring the pain, Mike slammed the shift with his bloody hand, knocking it into low. The car jerked forward. He floorboarded the pedal. The side view mirror caught Lori’s chin, knocking her to the ground. Stunned. The rear tire missed her head by inches.

Jack saw her go down. The car swerved, tipped to the side. He fired again through the back window. The sedan gathered speed. He emptied the weapon, but the car disappeared.

Lori brushed salt off her clothes, wincing as it ground into the gashes on her chin and elbows. She caught Jack’s look of concern, but shook her head, saying hoarsely, “I’m okay. Bill...?”

37

“
B
rooks, Trask here. I suppressed the Port Authority report sent to my committee, but...someone sent it to Kelley. Who? We could be in big trouble. Find out. Take care of it. Understand?” He hung up and opened the door to the phone booth. It was ninety-five degrees and ninety-percent humidity in Washington, DC, but his hands were cold.



Brooks stared at the receiver, then cradled his head on the desk. Who the hell sent that info to Director Kelley? His hands were shaking as he began pacing.

His thoughts snowballed: Knapp was at the Salt Lake with no way to be reached. He had reported the trucks were almost finished unloading. As for Agent Wilson—the bitch was on D’Amico’s trail like a coonhound. But what if the good doctor didn’t know anything about his father’s threat to expose Knapp and his partner? Was it Gabriel, after all?

Hell, it didn’t matter what the kid knew, thought Brooks. He has to be killed. Who sent the intel to DC? Could they trace it back to his own office?

There were thirty employees working on his floor. Thirty fucking people. He slammed his hand on the conference table so hard that one of the Chinese vases fell over. He hit the intercom button. “Hold all calls and get in here, now! And bring me some ice.”

When his personal secretary opened the door, she saw the vase and quickly picked up the pieces.

“We have a fucking catastrophe going on, and you’re the only one I trust.”

“I understand, sir. How can I help you?” Yolanda replied coolly.



Jack felt for a pulse. “He’s alive.” Louis Paul and Tito tore a sleeper seat out of a semi and tied Bill to the make-shift litter. Bill slipped in and out of consciousness. They ransacked the trailer. Band-Aids. A partially used roll of gauze. Methylate. Obviously the boss didn’t give a shit about the men working for him, thought Jack.

“Let’s turn him over on his stomach. Easy, easy. Tito, keep the pressure on his cheek.” Jack handed him a fresh gauze pack. “Get me something sharp, something...”

Louis Paul palmed him a razor-sharp blade. He began to explore the wound site, but stopped.

“Got to get him to the hospital. There could be a lot more damage than I can see.”

While they hovered over Bill, Tito scanned the horizon, his attention on a dust cloud, barely visible in the pre-dawn light. Pointing at the faint trail, he murmured, “A visitor, moving fast.”



Brooks crunched on ice, staring at the stack of reports on his desk. Crunch.

Barely able to stand the noise, Yolanda shivered. “Want me to process those, sir?”

Her voice jolted him out of his trance. “Not yet.” He motioned her away without looking up, and held up his hand, saying, “Stay. Sit.”

Yolanda felt like a dog obeying her master, but she stayed put, wishing she was a male canine and could piss on him and the goddamn intel he was so upset about.

Brooks pulled the reports closer, adjusted his reading glasses and slowly read each page. A single entry caught his eye. He re-read the cryptic notation. He could hear his heart speeding up.

Mr. K to Salt Lake. Trucks arrived in NM w/o problems.

He picked up the second page. Words jumped out:
K overseeing storage. All okay.

Brooks noticed the door was ajar. He slammed the door shut, and moved behind Yolanda’s chair. Hands on the back of the chair, close to her ear, he said, “This intel. How many people have seen it?” He snatched a file and shoved it in her lap.

After glancing at the report, Yolanda said, “I don’t know. Office Channels.” She paused, waiting for his response. All she got was the smell of his breath. The ice hadn’t helped.

“Since when? Why did Channels pick up on this?”

“Since Agent Wilson went on assignment.”

“Clarify.”

“She flew to Albuquerque. Went undercover. Your direct orders. The intel you are referring to have similar tags, so Channels forwarded them to
you.”

”Tags?”

“Well, the first tag Channels picked up was
NM
, which is obviously
New Mexico.
Then there’s the capital
K
in both transmissions. Nothing serious, I hope, sir.”

Brooks rounded his desk and sat down wearily. Pressing his fingers together, he looked over his hands at her for a full minute. Finally he said, “And your routine in processing these reports?”

“You mean, what do I do with them?” She steeled herself for his next blast.

“Goddamnit, yes! What happens to these fucking pieces of paper?”

“Exactly as you instructed. First to your desk, afterwards I file them according to origin and date in the classified file room.”

“That’s it? There are no other copies?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

He threw his reading glasses on the desk. “That will be all, Yolanda.” As she walked to the door, he added, “Thank you.”

She could still smell his sour-minty breath when she returned to her desk. Checked the time. Two hours until she could leave for lunch, place an untraceable phone call to Lori.



Despite the blood streaming into his right eye, Mike managed to head the sedan east toward Magdalena. Knapp ripped open his workshirt and tee shirt. Folded and compacted the cloth. Reaching forward from the back seat, he gently wedged the soft cloth under Mike’s hand and skull. The white jersey knit quickly oozed fresh blood. “Apply lots of pressure.” Knapp said. “You’re going to be okay.” He pulled on his shirt and slid back in the seat.

In the distance, lightning crazed across the mountains north of the tiny community. Mike glanced at the dashboard; the fuel needle wavered on empty. Panic took control.

Reduce Speed Ahead.

He slowed down; the first fat drops of rain hit the windshield, then a downpour. Lightning crisscrossed the sky. He fumbled with the wiper switch; the blades scraped the windshield, fighting the deluge. He spotted a dingy shanty with two pumps out front. No awning, no brand name. Dim light inside but no one around.

“Wait,” said Knapp. “It’s going to let up.”

It didn’t.

“I’ll go get someone,” said Knapp.

“Shit!” Mike snapped. “No. I’ll go.” He stepped into a blast of rain.

At least the water was washing off some of the blood. He reached for the pump handle with his left hand. Dropped it. He switched hands, using his left to press the cloth over the hole in the side of his head. His right hand squeezed the pump handle. Gas poured on to the sodden ground, splattering his legs and shoes.

The damn gas wouldn’t flow unless he stood there and squeezed the trigger, but at least there was gas. He kept his eyes on the sky, ducking with each arcing flash. The hair on the back of his hands stood up. Static energy everywhere. Suddenly he saw nothing, heard nothing, and did not feel his body hitting the ground. A direct lightning bolt struck the car and passed through his body, grounding in the mud where he stood.

Instantly, a fireball engulfed the car and Mike’s body. The full gas tank exploded.



Louis Paul took a step backward and shielded his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jack.

“The man who got away...in the car...he is dead.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I felt it. These people are desecrating Great Salt Lake Mother. She is very angry.” Slowly, he knelt and looked up at Jack. “I am so tired. So tired.”

Lori touched his shoulder. Louis Paul’s eyes shifted to her. He placed his other hand on top of hers.



Senator Trask entered the FBI building at 601 Fourth Street in downtown DC. Summoned by the Director himself, and ushered by two special agents to Kelley’s door, the senator was royally pissed by the time he was told to sit.

Kelley didn’t waste time.

With no pleasantries advanced, he asked, “What are you involved in, Senator?”

Trask began to answer but stopped. He focused on the Director’s desktop, spread with an array of reports, each stamped:
Zuni/Gallup.
He felt a sudden chill. Completely blindsided. He could barely talk.

Multiple questions followed rapidly. Trask responded with nothing of substance. Instead he responded rhetorically. “Why is the FBI interested? Why does this concern me?”

Kelley began a rampage. Tampered bills of lading. Illegal transports from Canada. Murderous slaughter in Chicago.

The interview ended bluntly. “Senator Trask, you can expect an in-depth investigation. A special senate enquiry.”



A battered Jeep Wagoneer headed directly at them. The driver stopped thirty feet away, held up his arms, climbed out of the dusty green vehicle and limped toward them. “Doctor D’Amico?”

“Flores!” exclaimed Lori. “It’s okay. I know him.”

Jack glanced at Tito, Louis Paul. Both men understood:
Watch him.
Turning back to the stranger, he said, “I need to get Doctor Newman to the hospital in Gallup.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“You saw,” said Louis Paul.

“I’ll take him. Put him in the back seat.”

“Go with this man,” Louis Paul said to Jack and Lori. “Watch over Doctor Bill.”

With Flores at the wheel, Lori got in beside him, her service revolver in her lap. A loud crackling sound emitted from the floor beside her legs.

“It’s a Geiger counter, got it in Albuquerque at the Army-Navy store,” said Josh. “Beta gamma probe. Very sensitive. Only about seven pounds, works off D-batteries. Watch the dial, if it goes wild...”

“Let’s get the hell outa here,” snapped Jack, as he cradled Bill’s head. “That’s radiation-death-soup out there.”

Lori looked back at Louis Paul. He held up his palm and tried to smile.



Blown from the car, barely feet from the roiling fireball, Knapp was acutely aware of everything. Flames still licked at the remainder of his shirt and pants. He pawed at them. Rolled away. Screaming. Leaving the burned clothes behind, burned into the asphalt. Searing pain, unbelievable pain devoured him. Screaming, screaming. He involuntarily clenched his fists. He soon realized he had no pain in his hands, and tried to focus on that single finding. His hands were covered with giant blisters and crusted blood. Fingers hidden, encapsulated in serum-filled balloons.

He tried to touch his face. He could see. Breathing was difficult. Nostrils, the boney parts, were charred, clotted with blood. His ears were roaring like a seashell, but he could hear. The last sounds he remembered were the screeching of brakes.

One of his trucks. One of his own trucks stopped. The truckers jumped from the cab and bolted for Mr. K. They saw a nude man, body contorted, limbs raw-beef-red, hands unidentifiable, face a mixture of blotched purple-red and charcoal pits. No eyelashes, brows, hair. Scalp, a mass of raw pulp. But...amazingly, half his body was untouched.

The lead driver, Todd Murphy, knew what to do. A gold crucifix hanging from his rearview mirror attested to his faith. Murphy had worked for Mr. K for years, driving insane hours and treacherous cargo in order to see his wife attain her nursing degree. He checked vital signs. Labored breathing. Racing heart.

The second driver only glanced at the scorched body. He immediately turned away and vomited.

“Get yourself together, partner. Damnit! Check around the vehicle. See if there’s anyone else,” snapped Murphy.

The sickened driver circled the burned-out car which still sparked with flames. He stopped abruptly, staring at the remains of a smoldering pile of a dismembered skeleton. “Murphy! Over here...”



The morning newspaper was next to a silver coffee pot on the dining table. Director Kelley read the headline:
Senator Joseph Trask of Illinois Found Dead in McLean.

The lead article in the
Washington Post
stated, ‘Death apparently was caused by a fall down the stairs leading to the basement.’

Kelley grunted, served himself scrambled eggs, chicken livers, and a dollop of grits from silver chafing dishes on the sideboard. A maid poured his coffee. Kelley stuck the starched white linen napkin in his collar and said to her, “Thank you, Mable. I’m famished.”