Minor in possession

CHAPTER 18

On Zeke's advice we stopped by an army-surplus/ammo shop on Thomas Road and purchased a box of Remington 125-grain semi-jacket hollow-point shells. Hollow points aren't armor piercing, not much good for shooting through cars or doors, but when they land in a human body, they stay there. It's the kind of ammunition that keeps medical examiners in business.

Rhonda, walking with me through the shop, didn't question my purchase of the shells, but she raised an eyebrow when I asked for earplugs.

"Target practice," I explained as the clerk went to get them. "Guns are like women, you know. They all come with the same basic equipment, but you need to field-test each one individually to know exactly how it works."

"Right," she said, responding in a lighthearted, bantering tone. "And not all field-testers are created equal."

I was still worrying about that one when we left the store. As we drove south on Interstate 10, the extra ammunition was stowed in the trunk, but my new used. 38, loaded but still untried, rested in its leather holster, clipped securely inside the waistband of my pants and concealed under the folds of my sport jacket.

I hadn't bothered to ask anyone in authority if my Washington license to carry a concealed weapon worked in Arizona because I didn't want to know the answer. Instead, I welcomed the presence of the gun, the slight pressure of its shape molded against the flesh of my gut. I was armed once more, carrying a Smith and Wesson. For the first time in weeks, I felt completely dressed.

Above us the sky changed from metropolitan smoggy, hazy blue to brilliant azure as we cruised past a rocky citadel Rhonda told me was called Picacho Peak. She kept up a running commentary as we drove, pointing out the names of Indian reservations, mountain ranges, and small towns with the glib geographical ease of a native. As I listened to Rhonda's engaging patter, I wondered if she herself was aware of the defense mechanism at work, if she realized that the constant barrage of small talk kept other, more intimate or hurtful subjects at bay.

South of Tucson she insisted we stop at a truck stop, The Triple T, for coffee and hot apple pie. Forty miles south of there, we turned off I-10 near a place called Benson and headed down Highway 90, a secondary road leading to Sierra Vista and Fort Huachuca.

The farther south we had driven, the more distance I had put between myself and Ironwood Ranch, the better I felt. The same didn't hold true for Rhonda. Once we turned off the interstate, her travelogue faltered and she fell strangely silent.

"How will we find out where they live?" she asked at last.

"I'm a detective, remember?" I countered with a grin, but Rhonda was beyond the reach of humor, so I answered more seriously.

"With any kind of luck, Guy Owens will be listed in the phone book. That's what they teach us at the police academy, you know. Check the phone book first. Let your fingers do the walking."

I glanced at Rhonda again, but she didn't crack a smile. Her face was pale, lips compressed, brows knit in a frown.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Where did you go?"

"What if I convince the father to change his mind and then Michelle decides she doesn't want the baby?" Rhonda asked.

"You'll have to cross that bridge when you come to it," I told her. "But remember, you shouldn't be able to force her to have the baby any more than her father can force her not to. It's Michelle's decision, not yours, not his."

She didn't answer for a long time while miles of blacktop spun away under the moving tires.

"Yes," she said finally, sounding at last resigned to the idea that ultimate control for the decision was beyond her. "I suppose you're right," she added reluctantly.

We drove the rest of the way into Sierra Vista in virtual silence.

At first glance Sierra Vista, all fast-food franchises and gas stations, seemed like a blotch of urban blight spilling out across the desert from the main gate of Fort Huachuca. I turned left down Fry Boulevard and stopped at the first gas station I saw, a self-serve Circle K. The phone book had long since disappeared from the booth outside, but inside I found a frayed, dog-eared edition. The book contained listings for all of Cochise County, and Sierra Vista was close to the back. Sure enough, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens had both a listed number and a listed address-141 Quail Run Drive.

"You want to call him and tell him we're coming?" I asked, when I returned to the car.

Rhonda shook her head. "Let's just show up," she said.

It turned out that Quail Run Drive was actually outside the Sierra Vista city limits. It was part of a development called Desert View Estates and set back from Highway 91, which ran south along a range of mountains Rhonda informed me were called the Huachucas. The roads in Desert View Estates were gravel rather than paved, and the houses, on seemingly huge lots, were set far back from the street.

We found 141 with no difficulty. It was a low red-brick structure with thick arches across the front. The arches and the recessed windows beyond them gave the house a sleepy Spanish look. Inside I caught a glimmer of somebody moving through the shadowy interior.

"At least somebody's home," Rhonda said, noting the Isuzu Trooper parked in front of the house as well as a sporty blue CRX sharing space in the carport with a decade-old maroon Cutlass.

"He may have company," I said. "By my count that's two more cars than drivers."

I pulled to a stop behind the Isuzu. The windows had been tinted so dark they were practically black. That's something that makes sense in the Arizona desert but not in sun-starved Seattle. The plates said Sonora, Mexico, so presumably Guy Owens did have company.

Without waiting for me, Rhonda got out and hurried to the door. She rang the bell, but by the time I joined her, no one had answered.

"Try again," I said. "I'm almost positive I saw someone moving around in there as we drove up."

She rang the bell again. Eventually, after what seemed like a long wait, the dead bolt clicked and the door handle turned. A haggard Guy Owens stood in the doorway.

"Sorry, Sue," he said, looking directly at Rhonda. "I won't be able to go to lunch with you and John. I'm not feeling well."

Sue??? Rhonda had opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped, stunned by what he had said. I could understand her confusion. Was this a genuine case of mistaken identity, or was something else going on?

"Wait a minute," she said, moving toward the door. "You don't understand. I've got to…"

Guy Owens caught my eye. There was no mistaking the warning shake of his head, but I didn't know what to do about it. Following Guy's lead, I quickly took hold of Rhonda's arm.

"Come on, Sue," I said, trying to pull her away. "We'll talk to him tomorrow when he's feeling better."

She looked up at me questioningly, but was allowing me to lead her back toward the car when a man emerged from the shadows behind Guy Owens holding an AK-47 assault rifle. He motioned for us to come inside. Just then a second man came loping around to the front of the house from the carport. The second one was wearing military fatigues.

At first I thought he might be there to help us, but I was wrong. He was carrying a 9-mm semi-automatic which he trained on me all the while shielding it with his body from the view of people on the roadway. The handgun may have been more subtle and more readily concealed than the AK-47, but it was sure as hell as lethal. Now we were trapped between the two.

"Looks like you and the lady better go on inside," the man with the 9-mm said, prodding me forward with the barrel of the gun.

He had Hispanic features and a decided accent. He was slight and scrawny. Hand to hand, he wouldn't have lasted a minute with me, but with the gun…Without argument, I went inside.

"They're friends of mine," Owens was explaining to the man with the rifle. "We were supposed to go out to brunch."

The importation of AK-47 assault rifles had been banned by the Bush Administration. Unfortunately, the old adage is proving true-if arms are outlawed, only outlaws will have arms. The crooks carried AK-47s long before the ban and they carry them now that the ban is in effect. Up against them, my puny little five-shot. 38 was nothing more than a glorified peashooter.

"These friends of his sure as hell ain't going to brunch now, are they, Paco." The second man grinned an evil, gold-toothed grin and strutted his way into the house, shutting the door behind him. "Brunch? No. A little ride? Si. And maybe after that, a long siesta."

Rhonda looked anxiously from face to face, trying to make sense of what had happened. "I don't understand. What's going on here?"

They've got Michelle," Owens answered, his voice thick with defeat. "They brought me back here to get the money."

"What money?" I asked.

"Money Joey Rothman evidently stole from these people. Or maybe it was plain old-fashioned extortion. I can't tell which. However he got it, Joey left the money with Michelle for safekeeping."

"Is Michelle all right?" Rhonsa asked.

Owned nodded. "I guess so. For now."

"Shut up," the man with the semiautomatic snapped.

Paco looked at his partner questioningly. "Did you find it, Tony?"

Tony nodded. "I think so. Right behind the dryer, just like she said. I was about to pick it up when the doorbell rang. Maybe the lady here would like to go get it for me while the rest of us wait."

He waved his weapon in Rhonda's direction, and she shrank away from it and him.

Guy Owens nodded reassuringly toward an open doorway. "The laundry room is just beyond the kitchen," he said. "Michelle said she hid the briefcase behind the clothes dryer."

Rhonda nodded mutely then disappeared through the doorway, while Tony stationed himself and the semiautomatic near enough to the opening that he could keep an eye on her as well as on us. He seemed to be in charge, but I still wasn't quite sure.

Cop or crook, in this business overconfidence can be a deadly mistake. So far, it hadn't occurred to either one of these gun-toting clowns that the people coming to take Guy Owens to a Sunday brunch might possibly be armed and dangerous themselves. Owens had faked them into believing his story, that we were nothing more than casual, harmless friends, and they hadn't bothered to search us. Considering the difference in firepower, it was a small mistake, but a mistake nonetheless, enough to give me an inkling of hope.

I tried to catch Owens' eye to see if he had any ideas, but he too was watching the doorway, waiting for Rhonda to reappear. She did, carrying a man's thick briefcase. Her face had gone deathly white, and I was afraid for a moment that she was going to faint. Instead, she stopped in the doorway and dropped the briefcase from knee level. It flopped onto the carpeting and fell over, but it didn't pop open.

"Come over here and open it, Paco," Tony said. "Let's make sure his little girl isn't jerking us around. There's supposed to be money in there, and some kind of paper as well."

It was issued like an order, and Paco obeyed without question. Putting his AK-47 on the floor beside him, he knelt and fumbled with the lock.

"Shit, man," he said after several futile attempts. "I can't. It's one of those damn combination locks. Want me to shoot it open?"

"Don't," Rhonda said. "I can open it. At least I think I can."

Surprised, we all looked at her.

"It's JoJo's," she explained. "I gave it to him for Christmas years ago when they were first coming out with the combination locks. Of course, if he's changed the combination…"

"Wait a minute," Tony said. "Whose did you say?"

Without bothering to answer him, Rhonda knelt on the floor and began tinkering with the lock, biting her bottom lip in concentration, oblivious to the two men watching her every move. Noticing their momentary lack of attention, I caught Guy Owens' eye.

Paco, kneeling beside Rhonda, was closest to Guy, and the deadly AK-47 still lay where he had left it, on the floor near his feet. Guy Owens rolled his eyes toward Paco in silent acknowledgement, while I calculated the seemingly immense distance between me and the death-dealing semiautomatic.

I knew only too well that we were taking a terrible risk. Withering fire from the semiautomatic would cut us to pieces if I was even a moment too late, but it was now or never. We wouldn't ever get another chance.

I edged closer to Tony, willing Rhonda to keep his attention focused on her slender, nimble fingers, praying that the creeps wouldn't sense the sudden surge of almost electric tension in the room.

The lid of the briefcase popped open revealing a briefcase full of money-tens, twenties, and hundreds, bound in careful stacks. That much money has a magnetic effect on some people, crooks in particular. Fortunately for us, both Paco and Tony were highly susceptible. While their eyes remained riveted to the spilling contents of the briefcase, Guy Owens and I launched our attack.

I didn't see Guy's well-placed kick. Instead, as I threw myself toward Tony, I heard the thud of a shod foot connecting with flesh followed by an agonized groan as Paco fell face down on the floor.

There was no time for me to draw the. 38. I threw myself toward Tony, aiming low, hoping to catch him in the abdomen before he could raise the gun to a firing position. He grunted in surprise as I crashed into him. The force of the blow knocked the pistol from his hand and sent it spinning onto the hard tiled surface of the dining room floor. Tony fell backward, carrying me with him through the dining room door where he sprawled face up on a glass-topped table.

We struggled there for a moment, both trying to gain an advantage. The table swayed crazily beneath our combined weight until the overstressed wrought-iron supports gave way and bent double. The glass itself crashed to the floor, splintering into huge shards four and five feet long.

When we landed, I was still on top and hanging onto Tony's legs, preventing the damaging kicks that were sure to follow if I let him loose. I saw Rhonda scramble desperately out of the way, kicking the assault rifle in front of her. For a moment Tony seemed stunned, breathless, then he began to clutch at my face. His sinewy thumbs were probing for my eyes, trying to blind me. I shook my head from side to side, trying to elude his grasp without letting go of his legs.

Just as his hands closed over my face, I heard Rhonda's voice say, "Freeze!"

There was unmistakable authority in the menacing word. Tony's fingers went suddenly limp, and he winced with pain.

"Get off him, Beau," Rhonda said urgently. "Be careful."

I glanced around, unable at first to see where her voice was coming from although she seemed to be somewhere behind me. When I tried to get up, I had to ease myself up over the assault rifle, which Rhonda Attwood held firmly, pressed deep in Tony's crotch. He tried to wiggle away.

"Don't you move," she ordered.

I wasn't sure at the time if she was bluffing or not. In fact, I'm not sure to this day whether or not she would have shot his balls off, but she sure as hell sounded serious, and Tony wasn't willing to call her on it.

I reached out to take the gun, but she shook her head and held onto it. "Check on Guy," she said. "He may need help."

Actually, guy Owens didn't need any help at all. With the semiautomatic in his hand, he was prodding the writhing Paco to his knees and forcing him over against the wall. As he moved, Paco clutched his gut and blathered that he needed a doctor.

Guy handed me the 9-mm. "Watch these guys," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Are you going to call for help?"

"No," he said. "I'm going after super glue and duct tape."

"You're crazy," I yelled after him. "If you don't call the cops, I will."

"Don't bother," he said. "They already cut the phone lines."

"I'll go to one of the neighbors then," I said, as he came back into the room carrying a gigantic roll of duct tape and a vial of super glue. Taking the lid off the super glue, he went straight to Paco.

"Open your mouth," Owens ordered.

Paco looked at me, rolling his eyes in fright. "Open your mouth, damn you," Owens repeated.

Reluctantly, Paco opened his mouth and Owens spread a thin line of glue like a welder's bead across the terrified man's lower lip. "Hold 'em together, now," Owens said. "And don't move."

Paco did as he was told. I was afraid Guy Owens had gone totally round the bend.

"Look, Guy, this has all been too much for you. You've got to settle down and start thinking calmly. I'll go next door and call the sheriff."

"The hell you will," he said to me, and then to Rhonda, "Bring that other one over here. We'll glue his mouth shut, too."

Tony came across the room at Rhonda's urging and submitted to the super-glue treatment. As soon as he had administered the glue, Guy began the process of stripping off their clothes and taping their hands and feet together. He worked quickly, purposefully, with no lost motions.

"Are you listening to me?" I demanded. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, Ownes? Why are you messing around with glue and duct tape? This has gone just about far enough, don't you think?"

Owens didn't stop as he answered. "Their boss-man, some asshole named Monty, gave us two hours to come down here to the house, collect the money, and get back. If we're not back by the deadline, he'll kill Michelle."

"So what's the matter with calling the sheriff? It's a kidnapping, for Chrissake. Call in the fucking F.B.I."

Guy Owens turned to Rhonda. "What's your name?"

"Rhonda," she answered. "Rhonda Attwood." He did a momentary double take as her name registered, then he caught himself.

"Get the truck then load all that money back in the briefcase, Rhonda. We'll need to take that along. And you," he said to me. "Help me get these creeps loaded into their Isuzu. They made me drive. I left the keys in the ignition. We'll bring it right up to the door so the neighbors don't get an eyeful."

Without a word, Rhonda jumped to do his bidding. She left the money where it was and went to get the Trooper. I lingered for a moment, and Guy Owens rose to his feet, leaving Paco and Tony on the floor with their feet duct-taped together and their forearms taped to their thighs. Almost the same size, we stood there glaring at one another across the two bound men.

Unlike me, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens was used to having his orders followed without question. When I didn't move, he finally lost patience.

"Get with it," he bellowed into my face. "You want me to call the sheriff, do you? Well, I called the goddamn sheriff yesterday and they wouldn't even take a goddamn report. Said Michelle was probably a runaway. Said to call them tomorrow if I didn't hear from her today."

Dismissing me, Owens turned away and started toward Paco as Rhonda came back in through the door. Obeying his orders to the letter, she had left the Trooper right outside with its motor running.

Owens picked up Paco and began muscling him toward the door.

"These two jokers picked me up this morning while I was out jogging and dragged me up the mountain to meet their boss. He wanted me to see for myself that they were holding Michelle. As soon as she saw me, Misha told them where to find the missing briefcase. Monty sent us back here to get it and said that if I tried anything funny, if any cops showed up when we came back, he'd kill her. Now do you understand?"

I was beginning to. "Where is she?"

"Up in the mountains at a place called Montezuma Pass. It's near the southern end of the Huachucas in the Coronado National Monument. From the rest area up there, Monty can see for miles in any direction. He'd know well in advance if I was bringing help with me. If we throw some clothes over these two clowns and fasten them in the car with the empty AK-47 next to Tony's shoulder so it looks like he's still got me covered, we may be able to trick him."

"What about us?" Rhonda called from behind us as she snapped the briefcase shut on the last of the money. "What can we do to help?"

"I thought about that while I was out getting the tape," Owens answered. "Monty doesn't know you, and he doesn't know that little blue car of yours. It's Sunday. Lots of people go up into the Huachucas for picnics on Sundays.

"You two go on ahead," Guy Owens continued. "Monty won't expect help to get there before I do. Michelle is in a blue Blazer parked near the restroom. When I get up there, I'll create a diversion somehow, draw Monty away from his truck, while you go in and try to get Michelle out."

I don't know if Guy Owens' job called for him to be a military strategist, but he sure as hell was one. In minutes he had evaluated the forces available and come up with a plan that was gutsy enough that it just might work.

"Gotcha," I said, and started moving Tony toward the door. Rhonda, holding the AK-47, hurried ahead to open the door for all of us.

"Help Guy with our passengers," she said briskly. "I'll go back and get the money."