Zuni Stew: A Novel (17 page)

One glance back and Tito scrambled up the shale-filled origin of the arroyo. At the top, he dodged several lechuguilla bushes blocking his path. Agave plants. Sharp-pointed leaves that could rip flesh to the bone. He shifted his pack and ran toward a wall of closely-spaced piñon trees.

Gabriel pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster and bolted up the
shale outlet. His heart pounded dangerously. He leveled the pistol. Fired. A plume of dust rose where the bullet buried itself in the ground inches from Tito’s bare feet.

Agave plants everywhere. “Goddamnit!” He popped a nitro under his tongue. The knife-like blades sliced his legs. He screamed, growled, plunged ahead.

Tito slipped soundlessly through the trees. The thickness of the growth made it possible for a person to miss another just feet apart. He smiled, slowed down. His confidence was short-lived. A powerful hand grabbed his leg. A sudden lightning pain shot through his left foot as Gabriel’s knife severed his Achilles tendon.

With amazing strength, Gabriel crawled on top of Tito. Pinned him to the ground. Knife at his throat. “I am going to cut your throat. Watch you bleed to death, and I plan on doing it slowly unless you take me to Jack. Now!”

Tito fought for breath. Gabriel’s weight was crushing. The tip of the blade entered his neck under his Adam’s apple. In gasps, Tito managed to say, “Okay, okay.”

“Get up, you sonofabitch.”

Tito tried to stand, but immediately fell. The tendon connecting calf muscle to the heel bone was severed. He couldn’t push off with his toes. “I can’t walk.”

“Then crawl, you animal. Pick up that pack.”



Bill trotted behind Jeff to the Piper Tri-Pacer. Checked ailerons, tail, wheels. Into the cockpit, high-signed good-to-go. Hand on the throttle, he started taxiing.



The intercom light went green. A soft female voice said, “Sir, the head of central dispatch is here to see you.”

“Send him in, hold all calls,” Knapp responded.

Murphy had reported in. All trucks were in place. Arrival at the salt lake a day away. He clicked on the intercom. “Get me two tickets to Albuquerque—first class. Have Mike bring my car around. Leave my return flight open-ended.”

32

A
sudden crack of thunder jolted Gabriel. He let go. Tito collapsed. Another crack, rolling, rolling thunder. Gabriel hacked off a branch; thrust the crude crutch at Tito. Piñon and cedars choked the ground between massively tall ponderosas, blocking the light. Tito lowered his head, stumbling blindly. The clouds erupted. A deluge began.

Suddenly Tito swung the crutch at Gabriel’s legs. A savage grunt. Off-balance. Gabriel jerked the branch away, viciously cracking it down on Tito’s shoulder.

“Try that again and I’ll beat you to death.”

The man could and would. Excruciating pain. Father! Help.

“I will take you to him.” Bare-footed, bleeding, he led, dragging his left leg. Hopped. Drag. Hopped. Drag.

The young Indian wasn’t the first person he had crippled. He had served in World War II as a foot soldier. Northern Italy. After the Americans crossed the Po River, the officers ordered their men to slice the Achilles tendons of all German prisoners. The Allies were moving so fast they couldn’t take prisoners with them.

The rain intensified. Dime-size hail began to pelt them. Gabriel’s shirt stuck to his skin, white hair plastered to his head. “How much further?”

“Just ahead, a lake,” answered Tito, breathing hard, shivering with pain. The crutch was digging into his shoulder. Probably broken. Cracked for certain.

Looking through the grey curtain of rain, Gabriel could barely make out the outline of a shelter about a hundred feet from the lake. “There?”

Tito stared blankly at him. Gave no reply. Gabriel shoved him toward the hut. “This gun is aimed at the back of your skull. Tell them you’re hurt, you need help.” He dropped to one knee, both hands holding the pistol, locked on Tito.

Tito managed a few steps, called out, collapsed in the mud. Lightning flashed. A relentless zigzag. Striking, retreating back into the dark clouds faster than his words reached the shelter.

They both heard his cry. Jack pulled back the hide, stepped out into a blast of rain. “Tito?”

Tito’s eyes flickered to his right. He passed out. Jack caught the warning too late.

Gabriel knelt by Tito’s side. “Hey, Jacko, it’s me, Uncle Gabe. You got to help him, he’s hurt pretty bad.”

“What happened to him? What are you doing here? Jesus Christ, Gabe, you’re the last person I expected to see. How did you...”

“I had to find you. Luckily, I met up with your supplier. I have to tell you...”

“Kind of late for that, don’t you think.” He wrapped his arms around Tito’s upper torso, hefting him up. Tito was dead weight. “Lori, help.”

“Mr. D’Amico,” said Lori slowly, her hand on the butt of her weapon. Gabe’s pistol was trained on her.

“Special Agent Wilson. Take out your pistol. Two fingers. Now!”

Lori did as he said. Backed inside. Gabriel yanked the hide away. His pistol was still aimed at her. “Brooks told me you were naïve. Out here all alone. No backup. Said you’d follow the Handbook. Never make a move on your own.” A smirk crossed his face. “Petite little bitch with your red fingernails and mini skirt. Fucked my nephew yet?”

“Bastard!” snapped Lori.

“You’re an animal!” screamed Jack, stepping protectively in front of her.

Gabe was quick. He fired at Jack’s leg, just missing the kneecap. The bullet ripped through his Levi’s. The smell of cordite filled the cramped hut. “You’re the last one left.”

“Why?” Jack cried. “Why...?”

Keeping the pistol on him, he said to Jack, “Pasquale, my
half
-brother, he was always stupid. That high society restaurant, the mansion, all his self-righteousness.”

Jack looked down at Tito. “You cut his Achilles tendon. That’s about as inhumane as a person can get.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You don’t know what it was like.”

“Did you kill them?” Jack let out an agonizing groan. “How could you? My entire family? Why?”

“It was necessary. Pasquale got in the way one too many times.”

“In the way of what?” asked Jack, practically screaming.

“Or who?” Lori snapped.

“I almost lost everything, Pasquale refused to help. Someone bailed me out—I owed him. I got the company back in the black, in spite of your daddy.”

“My Father?”

“Pasquale acted like he was above bribery, like he was pure, incorruptible. He looked down on me, so did Rose, that aristocratic bitch. I had the pleasure of watching her family suffer during the war—I went to their estate and spat on the Anitoli’s land.”

Jack made a guttural sound. Jaw clenched. Body rigid.

It was Lori who asked, “Who bailed you out, who do you owe? How do you know Brooks?”

“Brooks, a self-serving bastard. Ass-kisser. He’s just a paid lackey, on Mr. K’s payroll. I had to do it. Don’t you understand? Your grandfather would’ve done the same. Christ, he worked his butt off for everything so you, your worthless brother, those oh-so-cute sisters could have it all.”

“What could be so goddamned important about one of your fucking buildings, some skyscraper or shopping mall, that you could actually kill them? And who the hell is Mr. K?”

Gabriel stared at Jack, expressionless. “Pasquale called me late after the party he gave for you. When he left the dinner table, it was to confirm a deal I had going in Canada—it wasn’t shale for our cement plant, but uranium ore that I bought for Mr. K in the Athabasca Basin. Your father threatened to expose me. Uranium ore,” he repeated. “Refines into yellowcake. Worth millions. You, you little prick wouldn’t have to practice a day in your worthless life.” He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Jack’s right fist caught him squarely on the jaw. Sent him backwards. Rain, mud. He threw himself on top of Gabe. Knocked the gun away.

“Did you steal my father’s watch?” Jack growled, pinning him down.

“Yes,” Gabe spit. “Gave it to my bodyguard.” His knee viciously caught Jack in the crotch.

He doubled over, vomiting, gagging. Gabriel jumped him from behind. Knocked him to the ground. Wrapped both hands around his neck, applying every ounce of strength he possessed.

Jack choked, gasped. Clawed the ground, legs flailing. Lori lunged at Gabriel, kicking his head. She slipped, fell beside Jack. He grabbed Lori. Ran. Stumbled. Ran. Anywhere to get away.

The rain intensified, driving like nails, pinning them down. Lightning hit the ground with a jolting repercussion. Recharged. Negative charges zigzagged from earth to sky. A giant flash cracked overhead, generating a bolt of static energy. The ball of blinding light ignited the darkened sky and detonated, sending an ionized shower to the ground. The wind, horribly confused, howled. Thrashing limbs, shredding leaves. Mud, debris combined in a sodden, swirling mass. The swirling mass metamorphed into the appearance of hundreds of slithering rattlesnakes.

Gabriel screamed. The sound was horrific. Staccato rattling gone insane. Pelting rain like fangs sinking into his flesh. He flailed, incapable of striking out.

A hideous, terrifying sound roared behind Gabriel. He spun to face an enormous grizzly bear. Dark brown hump, concave face. Fast, coming straight for him. He frantically scrambled for his pistol. Heart racing. Managed to fire. Struck the bear’s right shoulder.

It reared back on two feet and roared, exposing huge canines. Giant claws, the length of a human finger, swiped Gabriel’s face, ripping off his nose. Gouged out both eyes. The other paw swung, peeling off his entire face. The carotid artery gushed. Grunts. Growls. Gnashing teeth.

Gabriel’s tortured scream suffocated in his own blood.

The monstrous bear lumbered away, dragging the body. Disappeared.



At his work bench, Louis Paul grabbed his right shoulder. Flinched in pain. Shut his eyes. Covered his ears. Rocked back and forth.

Standing at the door, his wife watched her tortured husband.

33

A
lbuquerque Sunport. Mr. K told Mike to rent a car. Half an hour later they were in a dark sedan crossing the Rio Grande. Huge old cottonwood trees bordered the slow-flowing river. Thickets of salt cedar bloomed like pink cotton candy at the edge of the brown water. Widely-spaced raindrops began to pelt the windshield. Then came a deluge.

“Where’s the rain coming from?” asked Knapp from the back seat. “This is desert.”

“Storms from the Sea of Cortez. A friend told me there’s a monsoon season here, can you believe it?” said Mike. Minutes passed before he asked, “Fill me in, Mr. K, where’re we headed?”

“Stay on Eighty-five, south to Socorro.” Passing through Belen, the storm down-sized to a light drizzle. Knapp noticed a pay phone adjacent to a two-pump filling station and told Mike to stop.

He called his secretary collect. “Any word yet from D’Amico?” The secretary was silent. “I said anything from Gabriel D’Amico?”

Finally she said, “Mr. K. Gabriel D’Amico is dead.”

“What?”

“Tribal police found him. He was mauled to death by a bear. They said it was pretty bad, nothing left of his face. State police traced him back to a rental car he got in Albuquerque.”

Knapp hung up, opened the glass door. Mike held an umbrella. “Jesus, killed by a bear,” he said in a hardly audible voice.

The driver slid behind the wheel, looked at the rearview mirror, asking, “What was that, sir?”

“A bear killed Gabe D’Amico, a goddamned bear. Just like Mario. Shit!”

The storm clouds lowered, rainfall increased. The highway twisted and dipped through arroyos. Yellow danger signs warned of flooding. Pungent grey-green chamisa hugged the road.

“When we get to Socorro, look out for Manzares Avenue, take a left,” Knapp said. “Down the block, there’s a hotel on the left. The Valverde. Check us in; I’ll be in the bar.”

Locals packed the smoke-filled bar, a jukebox resounded with Credence Clearwater. The crowd was a mix of hippies from New Mexico Tech and bikers. Seated in a booth against the far wall, Knapp ordered a double Scotch. He had trouble seeing the waitress’s face; the flashing red and green lights of the jukebox made the corner seem even darker.

Mike, despite being six-foot-four and upwards of two-fifty, slid smoothly into the booth. He still wore his raincoat, a coat that hid a pistol-grip shotgun. “Bags are in the rooms. Pretty crappy, but the bathrooms are okay.”

“What did you expect?” said Knapp, draining his glass. His right hand clutched a wet cocktail napkin, which he waded into a tiny ball. “Both men killed by bears. Maybe once, but twice? What are the odds?”

“I’ll be at your side every minute. Don’t worry, Mr. K.”

“Easy for you to say. We leave at dawn. The advance team should already have started digging.”



Restless, Louis Paul rose early, grabbed a couple of corn tortillas and left the still-dark pueblo. He was accustomed to navigating the pueblo in the dark. Electricity wasn’t introduced to the area until the late 1950’s; the first domestic water system didn’t come to the pueblo until the sixties. Before that the people siphoned water from springs, hauled it back to the pueblo in barrels. Mules pulled the wagons. He chopped wood in the freezing cold as a kid. Snow, blinding, stinging winds. Animals froze to death. Nothing to eat. The people starved.