Head Wounds Read online

  There were two entrances with locked gates and the property was fenced, but not secure against the migration of animals or the intrusion of humans. A good population of deer roamed freely, and quail and mourning doves thrived. Amazingly, Trevino had caught sight of several weasels once thought to be extinct in the region. There were squirrels, rabbits, and coyotes, but no sign of bears or cougars. He thought it improbable either would return, although he longed for it to happen.

  He spent a week cleaning out the caretaker’s cottage of the vermin that had moved in and killed all the snakes around the building, usually a woman’s chore. He made necessary repairs to windows, doors, and the leaky roof, stocked up on food and supplies, cut and stacked a cord of wood to dry, and outfitted the cottage with a few pieces of furniture he’d kept from the hacienda.

  Deer in a nearby clearing kept him company, browsing on twigs and leaves at a tree-lined thicket. The small herd consisted of an old doe, three very pregnant ones, and two frisky one-year-old fawns. With mating season still a long way off, there were no bucks sniffing around. The deer appeared unconcerned by Trevino’s presence, moving slowly in and out of view, only mildly interested in the occasional noise that he made.

  There were no power lines to the cabin. A gasoline generator supplied enough electricity to pump well water to use in the kitchen and the small bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. The small scale of the place with its wood cooking stove that kept the place warm at night was cozy and comforting, although he had no plans to sleep there right away.

  For defense, Trevino installed solar-powered wireless driveway alert systems at both ranch road gates, which he kept padlocked. He added solar-powered motion sensors a few yards out on either side of the entrances in case unwanted visitors chose to ignore the gates and crash through the fence. At the cabin he mounted a battery-operated CCTV camera over the front door and another at the back of the building. He programmed his smartphone to monitor all the devices. Close at hand was a handheld police radio he’d purchased at a premium from a semiliterate Piedras Negras uniformed officer who had reported it stolen from his patrol car.

  It wasn’t a perfect early warning system, but it was better than none at all. For now, he’d cook, take his meals, and shower at the cottage, with weapons within reach for the invasion by Lorenz’s henchmen that was sure to come, and soon.

  For survival, he set up three concealed field-of-fire locations away from the cabin, each stocked with a sniper rifle, assault weapons, a large supply of ammunition, water, and night-vision goggles. He’d bed down at the one farthest from the cabin and wait for the attack. When it came, he would either engage or retreat depending on what Lorenz threw against him.

  If he was still standing when it ended, he’d mapped and marked an escape route to follow. Once he was safe, blood would be spilled. Only the question of where to start remained unanswered. He’d think about that later. For now, he felt tranquil and contented. The ranch truly felt like home. A place where he could live close to his people, his traditions, his culture, and his language, yet be apart. Where he could come and go freely without the constant need to hide. Here, he’d hunt, grow crops, and be Kickapoo again.

  It was the best thing he’d ever done.

  Jimenez picked Harjo up Friday morning and told him it would be his last day on the job. The injured stonemason had recovered enough to return to work and needed the money. He’d start back on Saturday and work through the weekend.

  “He’s worked for me for a long time,” Jimenez explained apologetically. “He wanted to start today, but I told him no because it wouldn’t be fair to you and you needed to make money also, just like the rest of us.”

  “I appreciate that,” Harjo said with a smile. “Because I thought you were going to fire me for being too slow.”

  Jimenez chuckled. “Rich people don’t know nothing except hurry, hurry, do what I want, and here’s ten pesos.”

  “Did they complain?”

  “Only un poco. The wife.”

  “You told me you have another job close by, maybe with Senor Garza. Could you use me there?”

  “Garza?” Jimenez roared with laughter. “If only. How did you hear of him?”

  “Lupita, the housekeeper.”

  “Now, that would be a job I’d love to get. We drive by his place every day. The one with the twelve-foot brick wall with all those huge planters filled with flowers out in front. He’s got a full-time groundskeeper. No, my other job here is for a wealthy old widow who just wants her lawn cut, the leaves raked, and never tips.”

  Staying in character, Harjo shrugged. “The rich, always so stingy. Do you know of any other jobs?”

  Jimenez shook his head. “No se. What will you do?”

  “Go home. Cross the border.” For Jimenez’s protection, Harjo said no more. He needed to cut all ties with him.

  “I’ll buy the beers tonight,” Jimenez offered.

  “Bueno.” After the cervezas, he’d move out of the motel. “By the way, how much will my pay be?”

  Jimenez pulled to the side of the road and consulted his cell phone. “A little more than two thousand pesos.”

  Harjo did the math. Four ten-hour days had earned him a few bucks over a hundred U.S. dollars. He smiled appreciatively. “Okay.”

  “You’re lucky to have a place to go to in the States,” Jimenez said. “But I’ll miss your company.”

  “Me, too,” Harjo replied sincerely.

  Each morning, Harjo had paid for his motel room in advance. After beers with Jimenez, he returned to his room, packed his few things in a cheap canvas tote bag, and left the dingy motel through a side door. He walked along the slender shoulder of the roadway toward downtown Piedras Negras with the din of traffic clattering in his ears.

  Hidden under the waistband of his jeans was a money pocket he’d worn since entering Mexico with Agent Sedillo. It contained enough dollars to buy a gun on the street, a burner cell phone, some meals, and necessities, but not much more. Certainly not a vehicle. Although greenbacks were a common enough currency in Northern Mexico, Harjo had used them sparingly to avoid drawing unwanted attention. When the job was done and his money gone, maybe he’d have to steal a getaway car.

  First up was finding another place to stay. Since leaving Los Ladrones, Harjo had stopped shaving his head, which was now covered by a thick stubby fuzz. At the motel, he’d cut off his beard except for the mustache. With his new look, it was time to drop out of sight again for a while.

  At an Internet café, Harjo paid for an hour of computer time and found an ad for a furnished room to rent in an area three miles from the local airport. Or, less expensively, he could rent a bed in a dormitory-style room that accommodated four guests. The photographs looked copied from old magazines, suggesting the place was guaranteed to be a real dump.

  He bought a burner phone at the counter, called, and booked the furnished room. It would cost him half a day’s wages in pesos. He faced a long hike on an increasingly cold night, but he was up for it. Walking was always good for heavy thinking, and he had some serious obstacles to consider.

  How could he breach Garza’s estate without detection, given the security cameras and sensor lights on top of the twelve-foot walls? He also had to get by the gated guard station at the entrance to the subdivision.

  Would it be better to go after Lorenz in the secret basement room under Longwei’s restaurant? He needed to scout out those safe houses before deciding. He also needed a way to know when to strike. There was no sense doing any of it if his quarry wasn’t present. If he got Lorenz, could he take out Gilberto? Or would that be too much of a reach?

  He set out on the empty downtown sidewalk, hoping he looked too down-and-out to attract any potential muggers. Although slugging some cranked-up punk for his handgun would be a satisfying way to close out the evening.

  CHAPTER 18

  Clayton was eating lunch at his desk when Captain Rodney rang and ordered him into his office. The smell of nic
otine hung in the air, signaling that he’d just returned from one of his frequent smoke breaks.

  “You’re still playing with the Goggin-Nautzile case,” Rodney noted, looking only slightly peeved.

  “I haven’t tried to hide it,” Clayton replied. “But it’s not been on the clock. I give it a few minutes before shift, and if my desk is cleared I put in some time after work.”

  “I know that. Do you have anything new?”

  “I’ve formulated some assumptions about El Jefe to use as a baseline. Active-duty soldiers and veterans tend to remain loyal to their units and branch of service. Marine vets stick together. Air Force, Army, and Navy the same.”

  Rodney nodded. “I get it. So what?”

  “So, to narrow down my search, I’m assuming El Jefe served in the Army, like the two soldiers who went through the warrior healing ceremony. Remember, the newspaper article reported the officiant had been a decorated combat veteran.”

  “Isn’t being a Kickapoo enough of a strong bond without an Army connection?” Rodney countered.

  “Maybe, but they all came from different, geographically separate tribes in Oklahoma, Kansas, and Mexico. Granted, there’s interaction between them, but I’ve got nothing that tells me the three men knew each other in civilian life or on active duty. However, Jefe’s proficiency as a killer strongly suggests extensive military training.”

  “Your assumptions have big holes,” Rodney commented.

  “That need filling,” Clayton concurred. “But according to General Brannon, my father’s wife, the two soldiers are posted at different Army units, the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment and the Tenth Mountain Division.”

  “How does that fill a hole?”

  “Perhaps their reluctance to reveal the healer’s identity is nothing more than normal Kickapoo reticence with outsiders. Or there’s an important military connection between the three of them of a somewhat special nature.”

  “The strong bond of brothers in arms,” Rodney speculated.

  “Exactly,” Clayton replied. “I’m not saying they all served together at the same time, but they share that common bond of combat and pride in their unit.”

  “So where does that take you?”

  “Given the sketchy intelligence we have on El Jefe, I’m assuming he’s fifty to fifty-five years old, unmarried, and served one six-year active-duty enlistment as a young man. I set a ten-year parameter for his service, 1983 to 1991, to adjust for any margin of error. Then I took a look at conflicts during that time frame that put major troops on the ground, and narrowed it to four: Grenada in 1983, Operation Just Cause, which was the 1989 invasion of Panama, Operation Desert Storm in 1991, and the Battle of Mogadishu in Somalia in 1993. Only two of those conflicts put boots on the ground from both the Tenth Mountain Division and the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, Desert Storm and Somalia. I’m assuming El Jefe served in one of those units during both operations.”

  “Black Hawk Down,” Rodney said. “I read the book, saw the movie. Those troops got their asses kicked, won a shitload of medals. But back up, what makes you think El Jefe is in his fifties?”

  “The murder of the German couple in Mexico occurred almost thirty years ago. Assuming their two-year-old child was adopted by El Jefe, do the math. El Jefe enlists at seventeen, is honorably discharged at twenty-three, and soon after his return home he finds and adopts the boy.”

  “I’ll go with that,” Rodney said. “It’s all good speculation, but how is it going to get you to El Jefe?”

  “His nickname is Bear, and I’m betting it was his moniker in the service. A lot of veterans who served in combat units hold annual reunions and gatherings to revive old friendships, remember fallen comrades, and recall their good and bad wartime experiences. There are hundreds of such events posted on various social media sites monthly. There are also chatrooms expressly for vets of different units. I’m betting former service members from the Tenth and Seventy-Fifth are no different. Somebody out there who served in Somalia or Iraq remembers a fellow soldier named Bear. I’ll adopt a fictional identity as a relative who has lost contact with ‘Bear’ and wants to find him.”

  “And if you do find him?”

  “I’ll write out a criminal complaint, get an arrest warrant, and ask for a travel voucher so I can go get him and take him down. Screw the Feds.”

  Rodney smiled. “He’s a dangerous man. You’ll need backup.”

  “Care to go with me?”

  Rodney snorted. “If you make this happen, Detective Istee, I’m going, invited or not.”

  At every bar, cheap motel, fleabag hotel, and greasy spoon in Piedras Negras that Fallon visited, he worked his cover story. He was searching for his crazy uncle who weeks ago abandoned his travel trailer in Eagle Pass and disappeared into Mexico. He described Harjo to everyone he talked to, not expecting to get anywhere with it. Harjo was expert at changing his appearance and Fallon could only guess how he might now look. So, he settled in at the local bars and took every opportunity to talk about his crazy uncle who liked to run away and hide from his family. How worried everyone was back home. How heartsick his family was.

  Three solid days and nights of buying drinks and telling his sad tale about his lost, loco uncle had Fallon at bars on the outskirts of the city, where the beer was cheap, the talk friendly, and no narco thugs hung around. The customers had dirt under their fingernails, wore sweat-soaked, battered cowboy hats, baseball caps, and dusty clothes, and drank their cervezas with a congenial chatter that had Fallon thinking maybe Mexico was more than just rapists, criminals, illegal immigrants, gang members, and dope fiends trying to endlessly surge across the border intent on destroying the American way of life.

  At one such cantina along a highway, down the road from a sleazy motel with a defective neon sign that buzzed and flickered relentlessly, Fallon talked to a plasterer named Lorenzo who had tiny splotches of dried concrete on his denim work shirt.

  “He likes to hang out in cantinas,” Fallon concluded as he finished his spiel about his lost loco relative. “Have you noticed any new hombres like that?”

  “This one viejo came around for a while. Worked for Benito Jimenez a couple of days.”

  “An old man?” If true, it was a new disguise for Harjo. Fallon was impressed.

  Lorenzo, who was twenty-two, shrugged. “Yeah, beard, tall but skinny, hair almost shaved off. All fuzzy, just growing back. Haven’t seen him in a while. He was staying at the motel up the road.”

  “Is Jimenez here?” Fallon asked.

  Lorenzo scanned the crowd. “Don’t see him.”

  “But this viejo worked for him?”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Stonework. Benito owns a lawn and landscape company.”

  Stonework? Fallon pondered. Another new wrinkle. “How do I find Benito?”

  “He’s my mother’s neighbor.”

  “It could be my tio.” Fallon motioned to the bartender. “Let me buy you a cerveza.”

  Lorenzo smiled and a gold front tooth glistened. “Okay.”

  Fallon bought several rounds for Lorenzo before leaving the cantina with Benito Jimenez’s home address in his pocket. At the motel with the broken neon sign, a two-hundred-peso tip to the room clerk confirmed Lorenzo’s description of the bearded, fuzzy-headed viejo. He’d stayed there almost an entire week, checking out two days ago.

  Out the door and in his rental car, Fallon felt jubilant about finally having a lead. But he got turned around twice trying to find Jimenez’s house, and finally, after getting directions from a convenience store clerk, pulled up outside. He rang the bell on the gate of the security fence that enclosed the small front yard and waited. After a few minutes, a wary man came outside and asked what he wanted.

  “Are you Benito Jimenez?” Fallon asked. “I’m trying to find my lost tio. Lorenzo said he may have worked for you recently.”

  Jimenez relaxed and approached. “Sí, Marcos. I met him at the cantina. He got arrested in Texas and ICE deported him. Said he would
be going back home soon.”

  Fallon repressed a smile. Marcos was Spanish for Harjo’s murdered nephew’s given name. “Tall, thin, with a beard and hair real short?” Fallon queried.

  “That’s him. Good worker, slow but good.”

  “Did stonework?”

  “Sí.”

  “Did he say where he’d been before you met him?”

  “A place somewhere south, but he never said where.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  Jimenez opened the security gate. “Come inside. I am glad to do whatever I can to help you find your tio.”

  Fallon left Jimenez’s house knowing Harjo was deep undercover, without backup and living poor. Was he still on mission? Did he have money? Weapons? Transportation?

  He couldn’t stay buried forever. He would have to surface to gather intelligence. He’d need access to the use of a computer, a burner phone, the Internet. Fallon’s phone search listed three Internet cafés in the city, all open late at night.

  He struck out at the first two on the list and reached the downtown business just before closing. It smelled of stale pastries, bad coffee, and cigarettes. The kid on the late shift, a teenager with slicked-back hair, remembered a thin, old guy with real short hair and a mustache who’d been in a couple of nights ago. Harjo must have lost the beard, a smart move when changing locations.

  “He also bought a cell phone,” the kid added.

  That was good enough for Fallon. “Which computer station did he use?”

  The teenager pointed to a booth in the back corner. “Won’t do you any good. We delete search histories on all the machines every night.”

  Fallon handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Mind if I have a go at it?”

  The cash disappeared into the kid’s pants pocket. “Don’t take too long. I gotta close up.”

  The fairly new desktop had good speed and memory. Fallon did a quick search for free programs to restore deleted history, downloaded software that provided access to the hard drive, and began searching. Over the past three days, several thousand websites had been visited. Sorting through to find what Harjo might have been looking for would take a little time.