Shadows of Death Page 13

  “Tucker scares people, but he’s not the killer. I thought he looked good for it, too. He was in Vietnam and saw a lot of combat. After he was discharged, he became a war protester.”

  Meecham raised his eyebrows. “How come you know so much about Tucker?”

  “I did some checking, and Linda did some more.”

  “So he was ‘a person of interest’?” Meecham’s voice hardened.

  “More like an interesting person, Dave.”

  Meecham leaned forward, his mouth opening to speak.

  “Wait a minute, Chief. I know you think I should have brought this to you, but I didn’t have a thing to go on besides a hunch, which turned out to be wrong.” He gave the FBI agents a look. “After the killings on the flats, I checked on him. The burro slaughter made Tucker angry, very angry, and I got to thinking that a very angry Tucker would be capable of killing poachers. God knows they need thinning out,” he muttered. They all stared at him.

  He took a deep breath. “He could’ve done it, but he’s not the one.” Frank’s expression was unwavering. “Seth Parker’s our killer. I already told you that.” The FBI agents were pointedly silent. Meecham grimaced. Frank pursued it. “For God’s sake, Parker confessed—not just to me but to Linda Reyes as well. His partner put a rifle on her.” Frank’s expression was tight with anger.

  “A scope, clamped to a billboard,” Novak said.

  “He had an accomplice.”

  “Did you see the accomplice?”

  “Linda Reyes saw someone she thought was his partner,” Frank said.

  Pete Novak nodded, his expression noncommittal. “We’ll be talking to her soon.”

  “I don’t get it. You’ve got the name, the motive, and a confession. You do need to talk to her. She’s going to do a piece on him for the Times. Look, Drew speculated the shooter might be connected to me, and I didn’t like it much. Well, it turns out Drew was right. What’s more, Parker made it clear that he has unfinished business, the ones on his list.” He waited. “Ready on the left. Ready on the right. Ready on the firing line. You know what comes next? Commence firing. He’s not done—and he’s a professional sniper. He was in the Tenth Mountain Division.”

  “Your old outfit, right?” Ellis said.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “We’re looking into it,” Novak said.

  Ellis nodded. “That’s right. It’s under investigation.”

  The FBI agents rose as one and exited the office, Novak in the lead.

  •

  “Shut the door, please, Frank.” The rangers stood silently, contemplating their boss’s grim expression. Meecham considered the dejected rangers who had been involved in what Dave Meecham thought of as the hundred-thousand-acre fiasco. As far as he was concerned, their efforts to entice the Sandman into revealing himself had turned into a farce, perhaps a disaster. It depended on the extent of the damage to equipment and to the reputation of the BLM.

  “Let me sum up here,” Meecham sighed. “Greg, you and Novak had to walk out to Panamint Springs when Darwin Canyon flooded.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “How’d Novak hold up?”

  “Fine. I think he was kind of enjoying himself. He kept talking about how he’d never seen a flash flood before.”

  Meecham nodded. “He wasn’t the only one. We’re missing five people and two vehicles that were part of the vulture watch.” He grimaced. “Those are the ones reported.” He directed his gaze at Frank.

  “There’s two others we haven’t heard from,” Frank said.

  “What two others?”

  “It’s complicated, Dave, but the long and the short of it is that Eddie Laguna—”

  “Damn!” Meecham’s forehead furrowed. “I just love hearing Laguna’s mixed up in something. It gives me a feeling of security, because I know it’s going to be screwed up.”

  Frank stared at a spot on the wall.

  “Go on, Flynn.”

  Flynn—no more Frank. Meecham was tight. “Eddie, uh, Laguna was helping this woman, Cece Flowers, locate an old mine.”

  Meecham removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So that makes two more unaccounted for. Laguna and the Flowers woman.”

  Frank nodded.

  Meecham glowered down at his hands. The silence was heavy.

  “Okay,” Meecham finally said. “Find the missing folks. That’s our job until everyone’s accounted for, even Laguna. Finding the shooter will have to wait.”

  The rangers rose and headed for the door, relieved to be doing something.

  “Hang on for a minute, Frank.” Meecham waited till the others had cleared his office.

  “I guess you know Novak and Ellis don’t buy the stuff about Parker.”

  “Why the hell not? What more do they want?”

  “For one, they think you’re protecting Tucker.” He held up his hand. “Let me finish. You and Tucker are birds of a feather. That’s how they see it.”

  Linda had said pretty much the same thing, Frank thought. “What about Parker?”

  “They figure him to be a wannabe nutcase. It doesn’t help that he knows you and talks about the killings as a present to an old army buddy.”

  “Okay, Dave. How do they account for the Web site, the notes, his knowledge of the murder of Mike Travis?”

  “It’s a Web site, Frank. Anyone can put up a Web site. Anyone can read it. Travis’s murder is all over the papers. He showed you his newspaper, right? The notes could be from Tucker. He’s a vet, a vet with a violent history. The Dynamic Duo even considered the possibility you could’ve planted the notes yourself. For what reason, God only knows.”

  Frank shook his head in bewilderment. “We’re lucky Parker didn’t fall for the trap and show up. He’s an absolute professional with two tours in Iraq. Combat snipers kill a lot of people. They disassociate from it. If Parker takes it in his mind to do something newsworthy, as they say, a lot of people are going to die.”

  “For the record, Frank, I think Parker’s our man. The problem is that finding the sniper’s the FBI’s case.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dave. Now I’ll see if I can find Eddie Laguna for you. I know you’re worried.”

  “Why not wait a couple years? Naw, he fills in the dry spots. Besides, he’s your Paiute brother. Gotta look out for endangered species.”

  “He’s Shoshone,” Frank corrected, “and I’m beginning to think we’re all endangered.”

  Meecham’s phone rang. He held up his hand and took the call. “Dave Meecham, district ranger. Yeah, he’s right here.” He transferred his glance to Frank and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Some guy named Kevin McGuire for you.”

  Frank reached for the phone. “Frank Flynn here. No, I don’t.” His face clouded over. “Did she say where she was going?” He listened for a few moments more. “I’m headed out there right now. Thanks for calling. I will.” Frank passed Meecham the phone.

  “What’s wrong, Frank?”

  “Linda’s missing. She borrowed Kevin McGuire’s jeep, and someone reported it abandoned near the Talc Mine Road.”

  20

  •

  Linda knew she should stay with the jeep. If the vehicle breaks down, stick with the machinery—the cardinal rule of survival in the Mojave Desert, in any desert. Finding a stationary vehicle was a lot easier than finding a moving person in the immensity of muted colors and volcanic outcroppings that made up the northern Mojave. More important, a car or truck offered protection against the ever present sun, blistering winds, and bone-chilling cold. People usually died from dehydration, sunstroke, and exposure because they panicked and tried to walk back to civilization. So Linda waited, but she found the waiting difficult. Doing nothing was exasperating.

  So far, her effort to chronicle the first woman treasure hunter in the Mojave had been ridiculous. She had been frustrated at every turn. She had yet to know whether the hunt for the lost mine was legitimate or a scam to attract i
nvestors. In the morning light, she was leaning toward scam, and if Cece Flowers turned out to be a con artist, she would have been going in circles. Now her effort to meet Cece and Eddie in the desert had ended up with her spending the night in a drafty jeep that had decided to quit running, to say nothing of the fact she was hungry—not thirsty. She knew better than to go out into the desert without plenty of water.

  Linda sat on the hood of the jeep and waited for the eventual vehicle to pass by. If Cece proved to be a hustler, maybe she could write about Cece Flowers, Flimflam Woman of the Mojave. She sighed. Old news that. The Mojave Desert already had famous madams who had flimflammed their way into the history books. Cece wasn’t even a call girl—as far as she knew. How judgmental could she get!

  She just wished whoever was coming along the Saline Valley Road would hurry up—as long as it wasn’t Frank. She couldn’t bear the What are you doing here? Whose jeep? etc. She looked up the road at the distant sound of an approaching engine. She hopped down and eagerly searched for the vehicle on the other side of the curve sweeping down from the north. Now she could let herself feel relief and finally admit that she had been feeling spooked. Yesterday, just before the storm, she had heard distant gunshots. Somebody was always shooting at something, but still, it made her uneasy.

  The approaching vehicle was a VW van coming down the long grade from the pinyon pine country. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had spent the night in rain. The intense storm must have trapped others—all the bird-watchers who didn’t make it back to the paved road, for a starter. The BLM would have its hands full doing search and rescue. Thank God she wasn’t being rescued by Frank or one of the BLM guys. She would have died of permanent chagrin.

  The van rolled to a stop opposite the jeep. “Hi there. Looks like trouble,” the driver offered from under a floppy canvas hat, mirror sunglasses reflecting the morning light. Why couldn’t nature people find decent hats to wear, she wondered? The bad boy sunglasses were different, though.

  “Yeah, it just quit,” she responded. “I thought it might be vapor locked, but it wouldn’t start this morning either, so I guess that rules that out.” She hoped she didn’t sound like a damsel in distress. She hated the idea of sounding wimpy.

  “We’re headed back to the highway. At least we can get you to a gas station.”

  Linda went around to the passenger’s side and paused momentarily to read the sign, ALTADENA AUDUBON SOCIETY. It was an old-time VW van with the little skylight windows running along the top.

  The man in the passenger’s side stepped out, opened the slider, and climbed in back. “There you go,” he said, smiling at her as if he knew something she didn’t. Something about the way he looked at her made her uncomfortable.

  The driver spoke reassuringly. “Hop in. Hey, I’ll bet you’re hungry. We haven’t got much food left, but there’s this.” He rummaged around in a paper bag on the floor between the seats and brought out a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

  “Oh, God, I can’t resist those when I’m full, and I’m not full.” She laughed. “I’m starved.” Linda got into the front seat and eagerly opened the peanut butter cup, carefully pushing the paper away from the chocolate edge so as not to break any onto the floor.

  The driver put the van in gear and headed down the road. “The desert is at its best just after a rain,” he said.

  Linda gazed up at the cloud-shrouded peaks of the Sierra and the crisp blueness of the morning sky. “Yes, it’s very beautiful.” She looked over at her companion. “So you like birds, huh?”

  “I raise canaries,” the driver said.

  She could tell he was tall. The dark glasses and floppy hat made it difficult to see him, but there was something about him that struck her as familiar.

  “So how’s the article about the Sandman coming along, Ms. Reyes?” He pulled away the sunglasses, revealing a smattering of freckles across his boyish features. “Meeting up with you like this affords the opportunity to give you a firsthand account of the latest chapter.” The man in the back chuckled appreciatively. The half-eaten Reese’s slipped to the floor. Linda smiled vaguely. She was remembering her mother’s warning about taking candy from strangers.

  •

  “So that’s about it, Ms. Reyes,” Parker said, as he finished up the narrative about killing the man who shot the vulture and leaving his partner to bear witness. “You know the saying about he who lives by the sword dies by the sword.” He smiled. “Same for people who slaughter defenseless creatures.”

  “Same for you,” she said. “That’s the way you’ll go. Some cop will shoot you.”

  His smile dimmed. “I don’t think so.” Then the smile broadened. “But you never know. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  Linda wondered at the slip of the tongue. Or was it a slip of the tongue? She cast a covert look in Parker’s direction. The hat and glasses—he had put them back on—made it difficult to penetrate the surface. Besides, she had only encountered him that once at Ralph’s picnic table. Yet there was something different. He seemed subdued, despite the fact he’d triumphantly recounted the brutal murder of another human being.

  The man in the backseat barked out a mocking laugh. “Not likely,” he said. “Tell her how many confirmed kills you have.” He shifted his gaze to Linda. “Just army kills. What do you think? More than ten?” He nodded his head. “More than twenty-five? Yup. More than fifty? Yup.”

  “Forget it!” Parker snapped, turning to look at his partner.

  “I just wanted her to know that there’s no one who could take you, that’s all,” he said in an injured tone.

  Parker shook his head in silent refutation. “There’s always bad luck,” he said quietly. “Bad luck can take you down. Bragging draws attention from the celestial thug.” He gestured skyward.

  Was Parker thinking of hubris, Linda wondered? Frank had told her Parker was a literate man. What a waste.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Reyes, no harm will come to you.”

  “Why? Was I looking worried?”

  “I would say yes.”

  “I was thinking about my cat. Who would take care of my cat if something happened to me.” She wondered if Parker had an affection for cats. Maybe that could work in her favor.

  “Um-hmm. I know there are lots of people who like cats, but I can’t help but think of all the birds they kill. You have no idea how many wild birds fall prey to domestic cats.” He smiled. “Besides, think about it, I raise canaries, so I tend to favor Tweety over Sylvester.”

  “I suppose you would.” Damn, people wouldn’t stay in their boxes. Parker was good company. Nothing like reality to come along and ruin your preconceptions. “Well, Hobbes, that’s my cat, lives indoors. It’s that or wind up a meal for a coyote. The world’s full of predators,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone. She glanced into the backseat at the bland features of Parker’s companion. “If you’re not planning on harming me, why not drop me off at the highway. I’ll be okay.”

  “Sure you would, but there’s a story I want to tell you. Seeing you standing there by your busted-down jeep, I thought to myself, nothing happens without a reason—and if you believe that crap, good luck. Anyhow, your difficulties provided me with an opportunity to tell you a couple things about your Sergeant Flynn you might not know.”

  “What’s that?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Parker took his time to respond. They were jouncing along a particularly rough section of the Saline Valley Road, where it ran over pink and gray caprock before emerging onto the broad plateau. A field of Joshua trees stretched in front of them as the VW van began pulling through the damp earth of the desert floor.

  “Why are we slowing down?”

  Parker raised a slender hand and pointed toward a cluster of Joshua trees. “See the burros.” Linda saw the burros standing among the Joshua trees. They had been grazing on the grasses growing under the scant protection the spiny trees offered from the desert sun. Now they were alert, ears forward, ready to bolt. The
harsh sound of distant braying shattered the midday silence, and the family of burros turned and trotted away into the flats.

  Parker laughed. “He was warning them that they’d seen the devil.”

  “How do you mean?” Linda said.

  “The Qu’ran warns believers to take refuge at the braying of the donkey, for it means he’s seen the devil. I suspect it turns out be us.” He removed the dark glasses. “What do you think, Ms. Reyes? Those burros know better than to stick around, because they’ve been shot at, so seeing us is like seeing the devil, right? Of course, being a friend of Sergeant Flynn, you know all about the burro killings.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “See, there you go in support of your local vigilante for justice.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Sergeant Flynn ever tell you about the cow on the Hunter Liggett shooting range?”

  “He doesn’t talk about his experiences in the army.”

  Parker gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah, I imagine not. Well, Flynn was my training sergeant, what they call a tactical noncommissioned officer. He trained recruits in combat arms, meaning how to shoot. He was damn good, too, but not just at shooting. He knew his recruits, tried to bring them along, make them into soldiers without losing their humanity.” He gave Linda a long look. “I was one of his problem guys, a homesick kid who didn’t fit in. I guess you could say the other recruits thought I was a sad sack, not up to snuff, and in a way, they were right.”

  He paused to look out over the stillness of the desert landscape. “One day we were on the firing line, and this cow wandered onto the range. The red flag went up for us to cease firing, but there was this guy Stuller and his pals; they kept firing. The cow went down but struggled to its feet, then went down again. It kept trying to get up, and Stuller and the boys kept shooting. Finally it quit moving. You could hear them whooping with joy about bringing the cow down. Their first kill, so to speak.” Parker held Linda’s gaze. “So don’t you want to know what Sergeant Flynn was doing?”

  “What was he doing?”