Chapter 18 The Loner
Drummond was back at work. He had slept in his chair all night. His body ached. But, at least, he slept. He was still having trouble keeping his eyes open, but Avery took care of that.
“Charlie!” yelled Avery. “We got a hit on those photos. A hotel clerk over in Socorro recognized the Johnson brothers…and there’s more!
“What else you got, John?”
“A Socorro police officer took it on himself to check the dumpster in the back of the motel and found a trash bag which contained twenty-four beer cans, some smelly old pizza crusts…and a torn-up medical card. The name on the card is Royce Reirdon.”
Drummond asked for the printout Avery was holding. “Anything else?”
“They found an AARP card with Reirdon’s name on it, a Desert Fitness work-out facility card, and a wallet-sized photo — a picture of his granddaughter, the name on the back, Samantha Reirdon, six years old.”
Drummond stood up and threw the printouts on his desk. “Well, that confirms who the kidnappers are and narrows our search to a 400-mile stretch from Socorro to Tucson. There are a lot of open spaces out there. They could be held up anywhere. Wherever they are, they’re close enough for a quick side trip to Tucson.”
Avery added, “They have the poor guy’s ID, all his credit cards…they know everything they need to know about Royce Reirdon. He’s got a slim to none chance of getting out of this.”
“You might be right, John. What he needs is a guardian angel.”
Chapter 19
I’ve got to stay calm. I felt free, just having my hands free. But I knew I may as well be locked in a tomb — maybe a tomb would be better than this old bunkhouse. A half a dozen direct hits from a Uzi would take this dump down.
Maria was right. I might dodge a barrage of gunfire if I cover myself with the saddle…turn this bunk bed on its end…and hope…and pray. Walker once said, “Just get on your knees and talk to God…soon it’ll become the most relaxing moment of your day.”
Walker, let me tell you, I’m ready to get on my knees right now…but relaxing…I don’t think so. Outside this bunkhouse, there are two hoodlums and a drug dealer…and if that’s not enough, a couple of “goons” from a cartel are on their way. Within an hour, this place is going to turn into a high-tech O.K. Corral.
My God! I’m practically seventy years old. I’m finally seeing the light. My kids…my grandchildren…my family, that’s what is important…and yes, Walker, a relationship with God. I need to get out of this…get back on track, come out of this life-long shell I’ve been in…and do something that matters. Samantha, I miss you. Mayweather says to look for the most beautiful person in the room.
I can’t see you, Samantha. Those bums took it all. My wallet, my family pictures…my credit cards…so what…throw the plastic to the bottom of the list…my family…my life…my relationship with the Man up Stairs…those are the priorities now…not fame or fortune.
I saw car lights. I pulled the saddle close…then the bed and finally the mattress. I took a drink of water, ate the last piece of jerky…and waited.
“It’s the time!” Maria said quietly, signaling to Bobby Joe and Frankie Ray.
She had done this so many times before. It was always like clockwork…normally two men…two men who looked more like professors from a university… well-cropped beards…short hair…and pleasantly dressed showed up once a month, rain or shine.
They flash their headlights…turn them off and glide toward the ranch house.
They would park alongside the Cherokee and go to work. One would be fully armed with a Uzi strapped to his shoulder…the other, the driver, with a pistol in his holster — locked in place, just above his right or left knee…she was never sure which.
Maria would offer them beers while they worked. Chances are, if she were lucky, they’d both guzzle no more than two and would be on their way.
Tonight would be no different.
“Buenos Dias,” said the man Maria always called Rios. “You have a full load, I see. You’ve been a busy little girl. Must be close to a million this time.”
“That’s six states’ worth. I’m a tired puppy,” she said.
“The boss will be very pleased,” said Reynaldo. “It looks like your take will be $80 grand.”
Maria took a deep breath and handed them both long-neck beers. The routine the two men from Mexico were familiar with was about to change.
What happened next was almost too much to bear for Maria. She tried to hide her nerves, but Rios looked her square in the eye. “What’s the matter, little lady…you look a little nervous?”
Silence…nothing but silence.
Rios and Reynaldo dropped their beers, and Bobby Joe unleashed a shotgun blast that tore through his left shoulder of Rios.
Rios dropped to his knees but leveled his Uzi and fired toward the dark shadow at the edge of the ranch house, hitting his target six times before Rios finally lost control of his weapon.
Out from behind the bunkhouse, Frankie Ray walked toward Maria’s car and sauntered as if he was out for a midnight stroll — straight for the man on his knees. He threw down the shotgun and aimed his .45 — hitting Rios square between the eyes.
Reynaldo had slipped under the Cherokee and fired his weapon three times, hitting Frankie Ray, first in the right knee, while the second bullet ripped through the side of the young man’s right leg. The third bullet somehow found its way into the throat of Frankie Ray.
Frankie Ray fell to the ground but kept blasting away with what was left in his revolver. Suddenly, Reynaldo lay motionless underneath Maria’s vehicle.
“Maria, help me!”
Frankie Ray frantically looked for the beautiful girl with long, black hair. He saw her sprawled on the porch…face down.
He dropped to his knees, dropped his weapon, and looked toward the night sky. His life...over. His body is lifeless. He closed his eyes and hit the ground…dust splattered…his final word, “Maria!”
The wind had settled into the north-to-south breeze. A tumbleweed bounced slowly past the bunkhouse and disappeared into the darkness.
The bunkhouse door opened. The only audible sound — the screeching of the door…a hand emerging, pulling carefully, allowing enough space for a view of the grounds…
I couldn’t wait another moment…another second. I was alive, but was I the only one? Bullets had shattered the only window in the bunkhouse, and shrapnel had left holes just above the bed I had just used as my haven.
It was pitch dark, except for a dim light shining inside the ranch house. Suddenly, a remaining cloud in the dark sky moved just enough, and the moon appeared, shining enough light…just enough illumination to allow me to view the porch and Maria’s Cherokee.
I saw no movement. No yelling…no screaming, just deathly silence. I eased forward, half expecting a sudden blast of gunfire. Still, I moved forward…my mind told me to get down…to crawl, but I was frozen…still taking slow, easy steps forward.
Then I saw them. Four bodies…all face down — one underneath the Cherokee, one on the edge of the steps between the car and the front door of the ranch house. Twenty yards further away, I recognized the clothing — a bright red shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of boots I had seen so many times over the last nine days—it was Bobby Joe.
I inched my way closer. I saw an Oakland Raider hat, the slight breeze giving it life. There was no life next to it. It was Frankie Ray with his .45 lodged in his hand.
The two men from south of the border. They were history as well, one covered in blood six feet away from the front end of the Cherokee, the other face down…lifeless, underneath the vehicle.
I grabbed Frankie’s .45. Why, I don’t know? I hadn’t shot a gun or been to a firing range for a good twenty years. Could I protect myself….could I pull the trigger? I quickly looked at the weapon. It was empty. I heaved the gun into the night sky.
I noticed the front door was slightly ajar. I moved toward Bobby Joe…his gun at his side. I examined it. The weapon was half-loaded. I quickly grabbed it and slid my body under the front window, stood up, reached with my left hand, and pushed open the door.
I could see a trail of blood from the edge of the steps to the porch and into the ranch house. Maria, with a shotgun at her side, was propped up on the single bed in the corner of the room. Her head down…her eyes closed.
I rushed to her and saw a circular six-inch blood spot — on her left side… just an inch or two above her waist. I felt her pulse.
She was alive!
I grabbed a towel and wet it in a bucket of water next to the bed. I cleaned the wound, grabbed what was left of a bottle of Whiskey, and poured just enough on the wound to cover the area. It looked like plenty of buckshot had pelted her side, bad enough to cause extensive damage.
“My God!” I screamed out loud. That lowlife Bobby Joe got his man, but he might have taken down Maria, too. The fool didn’t care…Maria was expendable, and I would have been as well — if given the chance.
I figured Bobby Joe planned to get rid of everyone, maybe even his brother. I stared at the front door…still in shock, realizing I was the last man standing.
Maria moaned. She was coming to. I raised her head and positioned a pillow behind her neck. “Maria…Maria, are you with me?”
“I’m here, old man. I’m here.”
“It’s Royce Reirdon…call me Royce…not an old man.”
“Okay, Okay. I’m not too concerned about being politically correct at the moment.”
I smiled. Humor. My goodness. “You’re back among the living.”
She closed her eyes and was out. I felt her forehead; she had a fever. She’d need medical attention soon. There was only so much a broken-down Anchorman could do. I covered her with a blanket and started to get my bearings.
Four dead men are outside. Two cars in the barn, including my Lexus. Maria’s Cherokee with bullet holes from one end to the other. I quickly moved from room to room. Beer cans everywhere, an icebox with a day or two of food left. I entered the back bedroom and found a billfold on the dresser.
Inside the billfold is a driver’s license. Robert Joseph Johnson, PO Box 1410, Chicago, Illinois 60602. A five-dollar bill…three ones. I shook my head. “Where’s my wallet?”
I checked the other rooms, finally the closets…nothing…and then I saw it — an old, gray file cabinet. It looked like the same little cabinet I kept near my desk at home.
“No! Those two had been at my house!”
I slid the cabinet out and opened it. A handful of my old rings — including my old Razorback ring from the University of Arkansas. My billfold…my license was there…my passports…but no family pictures…no Samantha…no money. No credit cards.
I shuffled through a handful of papers. At the bottom of the file are three envelopes. I opened them: $ 15,000 in one, $20,000 in the second, and $12,000 in the third. One, two, $12,200. I counted frantically, $47,200…my money right in front of me with teller receipts to prove it.
“Those low lives!” They broke into my home and stole my passwords. How stupid could I be? I was told a million times to hide those passwords…don’t keep them around so somebody could get at them.
I screamed, “Somebody all right…a couple of thugs named Bobby Joe and Frankie Ray Johnson.”
“Royce! Royce, where are you?”
Maria was shaking. I rushed to her. She was trying to get up. “I need to go home…I’ll be late. I need to see my father. He’s going to be mad at me.”
I sat down beside her and tried to calm her down. “Maria, you’re dreaming. I’m right here.” She was right about one thing: I need to get her out of here…I need to call the authorities. We’re right in the middle of a crime scene…bodies all over the place…not to mention the drug money that was scattered all over the ranch.
Drug money!
The Cartel!
Chapter 20
Drummond and Avery, along with a dozen men from the unit, had canvassed every hotel within a fifty-mile radius of Reirdon’s Tucson home. No leads. No call-ins. No sightings.
The two men were frustrated. “We just can’t catch a break,” Avery said.
“Charlie, you’re not going to believe this,” Sammy yelled. “Pick up the phone.”
Avery patiently stood over Charlie’s desk. The phone call lasted approximately fifteen minutes. “We’re on our way!”
Drummond stood up and put on his coat. “Sammy, get someone to cover your desk. I need your help. John, the three of us are going for a ride to the New Mexico-Arizona border to a town called Rodeo.”
Avery, Officer Dalton, and Drummond headed east on I-10. They battled heavy traffic between the Houghton Road Exit and the town of Benson.
Once clear of Benson, Avery was able to make better time. Avery pushed hard on the cruiser’s gas pedal, and the vehicle gained speed as they gradually made their climb toward Texas Canyon. This famous landmark lies between the Little Dragoon Mountains to the north and the Dragoon Mountains to the south.
The canyon, a tourist attraction renowned for its massive granite boulders, is a dreamy scenic venue for photographers and rockhounds. Initially a stagecoach route for the Butterfield Line during the 1850s, the canyon was considered a stomping ground for the legendary Cochise, who made his last stronghold in the nearby Dragoon Mountains in 1870.
Once at the top of the canyon, it was clear sailing downhill to Willcox, a whistle-stop in the 1880s for the Southern Pacific Railroad, and then a straight shot to the border of New Mexico.
Drummond and his gang finally reached the New Mexico line and, twenty minutes later, came upon Highway 80 and the turnoff to Rodeo.
It was thirty-three miles straight south from there, and at 80-plus miles per hour, the three Tucson officers would arrive at their destination in less than twenty minutes, pull into Rodeo, and set up the temporary rendezvous area, which had been established by the western New Mexico police officers and the border patrol officers from both states.
Drummond was the first one out of the car and quickly found the man in charge. “Willie Sampson, here. You must be Lt. Drummond.”
Sampson explained the crime scene was a good twenty miles east of Rodeo, “a couple of rights and left turns, and you end up on a rough dirt road, which bends its way toward the Hatchet Mountains.”
Sampson moved the three new arrivals away from his police cruiser and pointed toward the mountains. “If you look closely, you can see some dark smoke to the northeast, coming from what is left of an old barn.”
Sampson jumped back in his cruiser. “Follow me. You’re gonna have to see this to believe it.”
Avery did his best to stay as far back from Sampson as possible without losing sight of him. A disgusted Avery said, “Remind me to never follow anyone again on a dirt road.”
Finally, Drummond could see the ranch house, a bunkhouse, a windmill, a well, and a smoldering barn…and what was left of three vehicles — a van, an SUV of some kind, and an old four-door sedan, all covered with ashes — and white ashes at that.
Avery stepped out of the car first and shook his head. “What a way to spend the day before Christmas Eve!”
It was High Noon, and it looked like a scene right out of a Gary Cooper movie. The New Mexico forensic team was everywhere; the crime scene was massive, from the ranch house to the well and the windmill, which was currently fluttering in the breeze, to the barn and the bunkhouse on the other side of the property.
Sampson stopped at the first body, the body of Frankie Ray.
“This is why we called you right away. Frankie Ray Johnson, age 23, had an APB out for him and his brother, Robert Joseph, age 24. This one had three credit cards in his back pocket —all three belonging to your Anchorman, Royce Reirdon.”
“That’s Frankie Ray, all right, and I’m sure that’s the brother over there,” said Drummond as he pointed to the southern edge of the ranch house. Two scum bags from Clay County, West Virginia…both started as petty thieves and graduated to kidnapping.”
“Well, they ended up way over their heads,” Sampson added.
“The other two dudes are bad as they come. They look pretty all dressed up, but in reality, they’re members of the Tijuana Cartel. You've got to hand it to the Clay County boys. They ambushed these two…unfortunately for them, the guys from south of the border got off the final shots.”
Officer Dalton had never been to such a gruesome scene. “Wow, a regular shoot-‘em-up gun battle. All four gone in less than sixty seconds.”
“That’s how the experts have it figured,” Sampson said. “What is so hard to figure is the scene over by the barn…or what’s left of it. There was close to $50,000 in both vehicles. It appears that they were transferring money from one to the other — either from the Cherokee to the van or vice versa. The fireworks must have started right in the middle of the transfer.”
Sampson added, "The van had about $5 million worth of cocaine stored away in a hidden compartment…all of it went up in smoke, along with close to $1 million in cash.”
Avery shook his head. “And this all happened after the four men were dead?”
“That’s how they have it figured,” Sampson said. “Who would have done something like that?”
“A righteous individual,” Drummond said. “I’m guessing, Royce Reirdon, but there’s more to this story; what about the girl you told me about?”
Sampson pulled out his notes. “Maria Consuelo Sanchez, 26, what a piece of work. Owns an artsy shop in Rodeo and stays open a few hours a week. It’s a front. She owns this stash house, or whatever you want to call it. After looking inside her Cherokee, we found a radio system I’d love to have in my cruiser.”
“She’s a drug runner and a money collector, isn’t she?” Officer Dalton piped up. “Out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s exactly what she is,” said Sampson.
“The question is, where is she, and where is Reirdon?” Drummond said. “They burned up all the money. What are they up to?”
A border patrol agent walked in on the meeting. “I’m Officer Dwight Smith. You folks need to take another look inside the ranch house.”
Drummond was first to the ranch door and saw the trail of blood and the bloodied sheets on the bed. “Someone’s lost a lot of blood. Sammy, get on the radio, call the office, make sure we’re in contact with all the hospitals in Douglas, Sierra Vista, Tucson, Nogales… to California, for that matter.”
Drummond stepped outside and then made a beeline for the bunkhouse. His keen eye focused on the rope on the floor, the turned-over bed, and the saddle. “They had Reirdon locked in here. Someone had untied him and taken care of him. It must have been that guardian angel — Miss Maria Consuelo Sanchez.”
A disgusted Drummond shook his head. He was no closer to finding Reirdon than he was ten days ago. “Where are you, Reirdon?”
Chapter 21
I looked over my shoulder. Maria had passed out.
What have I done? I had taken Highway 80 south to Douglas. I found a phone at the first hotel I saw and placed a long-distance call to Joan. The last time I saw my cell phone was eleven days ago. Those thugs probably tossed it somewhere between Socorro and Las Cruces. It’s probably in pieces on the highway and run over by a thousand cars.
“I’m all right, Joan. Tell everyone I’m all right. I’ll be home for Christmas, but there’s something I must do, and I can’t explain it to you right now.”
“Royce, we just saw on the news. Your kidnappers are dead…four people are dead…somewhere in western New Mexico.”
“I know, Joan. I must go…”
Just three hours ago, I had made a decision, a decision which just may cost me my life…a decision that would, or could, keep me away from my family forever. Maria had woken up long enough to point to a calendar on the wall of the ranch house. A Mexican calendar — at the very bottom…an advertisement — Ramon Perez Sanchez…owner/operator of an auto and tire repair shop in Magdalena de Kino.
“Take me home, Royce. Take me home.”
I made so many decisions in the last few hours. My head was spinning. I was tired, but I was running on adrenaline. I wasn’t about to let the drug money or the cocaine get back in the hands of the cartel. I burned it all, along with the van, the Johnson brothers’ car, and Maria’s Jeep Cherokee.
I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I wanted to save a life. Change a life. I wanted Maria to understand the harmful drugs she was running could someday end up in the hands of my granddaughters…my grandsons…young men, and young women from all over the country…my country. I want her to understand that her actions result in addiction…death…can turn a once stable person into a raving maniac, sending them into a life of crime, backing them into a corner where they’d do anything for their next fix… they’re next high.
“Take me home, please. If I must die…I want to be in my father’s arms.”
Getting into Mexico would be one thing; getting back out would be another. I had my passport and my driver’s license, compliments of the Johnson brothers, who, for one reason or another, decided to hold on to those precious documents. As for Maria, she had enough to choose from. I shuffled through her papers in her bedroom and found an address in Magdalena, her father’s place, probably not far from his business.
Magdalena was a town of nearly 30,000 people. If I remember correctly, I took an overnight, mid-week tour with a 60-and-over Tucson travel group to Magdalena a few years back. The Sonoran city is the home of Father Kino, the famous priest who rode his mule through the territory back in the 1700s, building churches — including one that still stands in south Tucson.
A group of University of Arizona archeological excavators was digging for artifacts in Magdalena back in 1966 and came across the graves of Father Kino and the Priests.
Now, here I am, heading for the same Sonoran city, some forty-seven years later, wondering if I’m just days away from being buried in a cemetery within earshot of Father Kino.
How long will it take the cartel to find Maria? How long will it take them to find me?
I was at the final checkpoint. The last forty minutes had been stressful. I could feel the drops of sweat trickling down the side of my face.
The border crossing had been easy enough. It was more of a matter of luck of the draw; catch a green light and you’re home free, but a red light and chances are the car will be searched. A 50-50 proposition, no matter how you look at it. The vehicles were moving slowly at the border. I placed Maria in the passenger seat and covered her with a Mexican sarape. She was awake and understood what had to be done. I had both passports next to me.
I had been forced to make another stop in Douglas. I wasn’t about to cross the border with all of my hard-earned money. After all, I just got it back…at least most of it. I found a locker at the bus station and stuffed all but $5,200 into it, locked it, and attached the key to my keychain. I kept the $5,200 in a black satchel I had found at the ranch in Maria’s bedroom closet and hustled back to the car and Maria.
The Mexican official at the final checkpoint looked in the front and back seats. Tipped his hat to the young lady. Maria did her best to smile. The officer examined both passports.
“Destination?”
“Magdalena de Kino, taking the young lady home for the holidays, I’ll be returning in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I see. Welcome to Mexico.” The border patrol agent handed back our passports and waved us on. The agent must have figured a 69-year-old American traveling no further than Sonora was harmless enough.
The official tapped the top of my car and said, “Watch yourself around the Cananea area. The weather is not the greatest, but the road is still passable.”
I found the highway to Magdalena. A hundred miles to go. I had never in my life been on the road before. Maria said the highway was full of curves, and at certain times of the year, the area was closed due to icy conditions.
I glanced over at Maria.
“Please, Maria. Hold on.” She said her father had a close friend who ran a clinic. “Get me there. Someone will help us.”
If she survived all this, her life would never be the same again.
Yes, it was easy to figure out what she did with most of the money — the money that wasn’t buried on her property. The money, albeit drug money, found its way to her father…her family…all the cousins, aunts, and uncles. She gave them all life…not a life of luxury as we have grown to expect in the U.S., but a better life, a somewhat comfortable life in Magdalena de Kino.
I’m sure the Sanchez family graciously accepted the money. No questions asked. They would soon find out the bottom-line price for all the money they had received.
Maria was right. The highway was treacherous, but we navigated the danger zones, picked up speed, and finally, I could see the lights of Magdalena. I reached over and placed the palm of my right hand on the forehead of Maria. Her skin felt warm, and her beautiful eyes stared straight at me. She tried her best to offer a smile.
“We’re almost there, Maria. “We’re almost there.”
I looked at the time on my satellite radio display. In just a few hours, it would be Christmas Eve.
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