Chapter Two

 

 Darkness swelled in room beyond the bookcase, its shadow sniffing at the cracks of the hidden door like a police hound. Jorge's head leaned against the unfinished wood, his eyes burning from staring through the spy hole at nothing. His back ached from too many hours sitting in one place, morning fading into afternoon, and then into night.

 The previous master of the commune had let Jorge in on the secret of this place, telling him to hide here whenever the police came.

 "Unless they have dogs, they'll never find you," the master had said.

 True to this, no one had, though the police had come into the room outside the bookcase during the initial raid, the fat sheriff sniffing around at the corners of the room as if sensing the hidden space behind the bookcase. The man's dented nose had come so close to the peephole Jorge could nearly count the hairs in each nostril.

 Then behind him, emerging through the door from the rest of the house, another man came, a tall six foot six figure with black shimmering skin and sharp brown eyes that seemed to dissect the room, taking it apart and putting it together again, frowning over the discrepancies.

 "It has to be here," this man said, his deep voice continuing a conversation begun in the other room. "We tracked it up from the bus station last night."

 "So, you said," the sheriff mumbled, snorted, and then spat phlegm onto the floor behind the desk, at which point he began to suck at his teeth. "I know you federal people think you're smart. But I don't see nothing but what those kids had on the tables outside."

 "That's my point," the black narc said. "Your people checked here two weeks ago. It was dry as a bone. Where did they get those drugs if the shipment didn't come?"

 The black man took another stride into the room, then circled along the walls, studying the book bindings, his thick lipped mouth shaping out the titles of each as if well acquainted with the collection, philosophy, literature, and other classics of Western Civilization, left behind by the former master of the house. As the man neared, Jorge could see more clearly the serious expression, and the dull lighter colored scar that ran down one side of the face from the corner of the man's mouth to the edge of his eye.

 "There are other places people can get drugs in this town, Mr. Demetre," the sheriff said, poking among the paper work on the desk, electric bills, telephone bills, grocery bills and other odd bills Jorge hadn't managed yet to pay or file.

 "Not like these," Demetre said, fishing a plastic bag from his pocket, holding it up to the light to stare through at the assortment of pills. "This isn't your street stuff. All of this is pharmaceutical pure. Some of it has the markings of the manufacturer on it. Some of its even in the original wrappers."

 "Then maybe they ate it all," the Sheriff growled, abandoning his search of the desk for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with a huge dirty handkerchief. He removed his wide green campaign style hat and wiped down his whole head, squeezing the liquid from the cloth when he was done. It dripped down onto the desk top papers. Then, he shoved the rag back into his pocket.

 Demetre continued his slow stroll around the perimeter of the room, staring at the bookcase, seemingly in search of something. Jorge held his breath, gripping the inside doorhandle to keep his hands from shaking. His squinting eye remained fixed on the peephole, afraid that if he shifted an inch the black narc would catch sight of the moment. Or perhaps the narc all already knew, having caught Jorge's flight up the stairs dragging the two barely closed suitcases behind him. Was there a mark in the dust on the floor, a trail leading straight to the door?

 The thoughtful Demetre shook his head.

 "No, they didn't eat it all,” he said with a sigh. "Even this gluttonous lot couldn't have devoured so much in so short a time. This was a particularly large load, a special shipment from the Denver crowd-- destined I'm afraid to be the last."

 "I don't understand," the Sheriff said, twisting the end of his large grey moustache. Again, he stared down at the desk, fingering the papers there, holding open the pages of the household diary Jorge had so carelessly left open. In it, Jorge had faithfully recorded every household event since the master of the house had left, from finding the month's supply of potatoes rotten to the arrival of the shipment. All the Sheriff had to do was read the book he examined to find Demetre's proof. But the heavy jowls of the local officer shivered as he yawned, and his fat fingers closed the book with a lazy sigh. "You act as if the Denver was on to you -- you, Mr. Ace detective from Washington, D.C."

 "I'm not perfect," Demetre said, apparently immune to the local cop's gloating. He simply studied the book spines just in front of the peep hole. Jorge could see the texture of the man's face, and the pained expression that scar left on it. "Those Denver people are not fools. The whole interstate system proves that much. Something scared them. But it wasn't me. They wouldn't have sent this load if they knew I could trace it back to them."

 "Scared you say? Of who? And if the dope was here, where is it?"

 Demetre shrugged. "I suppose we screwed up somehow," he said. "Somehow it slipped out of the house before we could close in. The shipment's probably already headed for the next stop on this crazy circuit west."

 "Slipped through, you say?" the fat cop growled. "Now you're saying my boys are incompetent?"

 "Nobody's criticizing your department," Demetre said. "I told you. These people are clever. They might have pulled a switch down at the bus depot, bringing back here just enough dope to party on."

 

 "Impossible. We watched the whole time."

 "Then they pulled the stunt somewhere else along the circuit," Demetre said. "Maybe they met someone had a rest stop on the Colorado side, took their stuff off the bus there and left the nearly empty bags inside for us to watch come off at the depot. It hardly matters how they did it. It seems to have moved on without us. What's more important is who has it now."

 "Why?" the sheriff asked, again pulling out the rag to wipe his dripping brow.

 "Because I think this shipment was meant as a payoff."

 The fat sheriff peered out at Demetre from under the rag, his whole upper face crinkling with a frown. "A payoff for who?"

 The black man slid a book out from the shelf, perilously close to the peep hole. It teetered in hands, unopened, unexamined, more toy than literature.

 "I have an idea who," he said. "But the reason intrigues me more. I think the Denver crowd wants someone to stay quiet about their operations, someone who knows a lot and can do significant damage to their reputations if not pacified."

 "Sounds to me they be better off killing him," the sheriff said and stuffed the rag once more in his back pocket.

 "Indeed, they may have tried that. We found a few mangled bodies in a Denver alley. But Buckingham is tougher to trap than a frightened coyote."

 "Buckingham?" the sheriff exploded, turning his attention from the desk stop to stare at the narc, his Jello expression clearly shocked. "You mean there's actually such a person?"

 "There was," Demetre said, opening the book, his dark eyes growing wider with mild surprise, as his gaze passed over what was apparently familiar passages.

 "How do you know this was him this time?"

 "The bodies had his brutal touch."

 "You mean you've run into him before?"

 "I tracked him for a time when we were both back East."

 "And he got away?"

 "To my everlasting disappointment, yes," Demetre mumbled.

 "And you such a hot shot narc from Washington."

 "We all have our foibles," the black narc said.

 "You say this Buckingham's out in these parts now? You got more evidence than those bodies?"

 "Only rumors," Demetre said. "But if he's come West again like they say, then we all have our hands full. He's clever and dangerous and more than match for most local police."

 "We're handled our share of hoodlums," the sheriff said, sweat dribbling down his fat face and onto the green desk plotter, leaving tiny circles of wet that looked like blood in the dim light.

 "Not like him," Demetre said.

 "You think you're going to show us up and catch him this time?" the sheriff asked, eyeing the cop with obvious distaste.

 Demetre cringed, and stared off, apparently lost in some painful memory. He drew himself back into the room with a shudder and closed the book with a snap.

 "If I can," he mumbled. "But Buckingham is a devil and he's outwitted me more than once. The most I can do is get onto his trail again and cling to it, and hope he makes some fundamental mistake..."

 The arrival of one of the sheriff's men interrupted Demetre, a slim cop but with sweat stains under his arms and a look of great weariness. He knocked on the open door, his willowy frame as vague as a ghost's to Jorge who had to squint hard to catch the outline of the man and cup his ear to hear what the man had to say.

 "We got them all out, sheriff," the officer reported.

 "Good work," the fat man said, glancing towards Demetre, his narrow eyes studying the narc. "So? What did you have in mind now?"

 Demetre shifted the book from hand to hand, but stared around the room again, the scar pulled tight by his thoughtful expression.

 "I suppose we need to keep an eye out here until the fingerprint people come. I wouldn't want someone sneaking back. There are clues here that need study."

 "I can assign a few men to camp out here," the sheriff said.

 "No, that would be too obvious. I wouldn't want to discourage anyone from coming back. Who knows what sort of fly we might catch if we play this right. Assign a car to watch down here from somewhere off the road. If anything moves here, I want to know about it fast."

 The Sheriff sighed, then glared at the officer still standing in the door. "You heard the man," he said sharply. "Do it."

 The officer stiffened, then spun on his heals and left.

 "Suppose the shipment was here," the Sheriff said after a moment of apparent contemplation. "Could this Buckingham have gotten out through our ring of cars?"

 "If I had to bet that someone could, he's the man I'd bet on," Demetre said, finally putting the book down, though not back into its position near the peep hole. He laid it flat on the shelf, its gold lettering glinting with angled sunlight through the room's one small window. "But then we might have nabbed him with the rest and never know."

 "You don't know what he looks like?" the sheriff said, looking startled.

 "I've never laid eyes on him. I don't know anyone who has," Demetre said. "There's only one photograph of him, and it's a blurry shot from a bank camera during a robbery. Buckingham's face was covered with a mask."

 "Surely there's some way to tell if he was here or not."

 "There is one detail missing from this scene that usually marks his trail."

 "Which is?"

 "Dead bodies," Demetre said. "Buckingham usually leaves a trail of red tears behind him. The more gruesome the scene the more likely it is he's been there. All this seems a little too clean for his kind of operation."

 "Perhaps he didn't have enough time," the sheriff said. "Or maybe he was too concerned about slipping out with the dope."

 "Both are possibilities," Demetre said. "But if he was here and has taken the dope, then there's going to be trouble down the road. I wanted to stop him here and now, put an end to his reign of terror before more innocent people got hurt."

 "Innocent people?" the sheriff asked. "Are you trying to tell me these hippies are innocent."

 "In some ways they are," Demetre said. "But I wasn't thinking only of them. Buckingham does things in a big way. His violence tends to spread out beyond those immediately involved in his crimes. But if this was his doing -- as I suspect it is -- then we're probably going to have to play out the scene his way. Come on. Let's get out of here. We have plenty of people to question."

 Then, they were gone, and still Jorge did not move, waiting in his stiff crouched position under the sound of approaching feet came, and two more police officers made their appearance, men with big black bags who dusted the room with their white powder, pulling prints from the books and tables. Silent men for the most part, who did what they came to do, and left, leaving behind them the silence of the house.

 After their departure, Jorge relaxed a little, wondering if it was safe for him to open the secret door and use the bathroom. Yet something kept him from pulling back the small brass bolt. It was not a sound so much as a feeling, a sense of a danger that grew in the dying daylight. Somewhere elsewhere in the house a door opened, and he thought he heard the sound of soft feet padding through the house. It might have only been the night winds that always came at the end of the day. He could feel its cool touch through the cracks of the bookcase. But the feeling grew more intense as if he sensed someone coming into the room. He heard nothing but the house breathing and the slap of a shudder on the wind. Still, he knew someone sat in the room beyond the bookcase, sat and waited like a watch dog, sniffing out Jorge's sweat as his close space grew stale. Only once did he hear the creak of a chair under someone's weight and the slow sigh of growing impatience.

 "Come out, come out, wherever you are," the old nursery rhyme sang, the tune echoing in his head from not so long ago when he was still living in his father's house. Jorge wished he was back there now, sitting on his front porch, his father's broad shoulders framed by its arch. He could almost smell his mother's cooking, as the smell of it crept out the open window.

 Home.

 The word had whole new connotations now from those he felt when he actually lived there. Instead of feeling trapped by the word, he felt its safety. Middle America where guns and cops and dope were myths from television land. How could he have been so stupid as to think he would find something better out here on the road, living like an animal in this dusty place. What had been so terrible in the idea that he might inherit his father's life, go to school, take on a job, marry and have kids?

 Why was it so uncool to have a safe uneventful life? How could he ever come to think that cramming himself in this closet, smelling the stink of his own sweat as cool?

 Finally, he could take it no more, the silence or the smell. If the black cop waited outside, what did it matter? Jorge would simply follow along the trail the others had taken, putting his wrists out for the cop to cuff, and then, at the police station, he would make the call that would bring his father here to take him home.

 His fingers fumbled for the small brass bolt, then yanked it aside. The heavy bookcase door rolled open of its own accord, its rarely used hinges squeaking with the weight of books. The sound carried out into the house, sounding like something dying. Was that a growl he heard?

 No. It was only the distant sound of truck gears grinding their way up the long climb out of Albuquerque. Somewhere on the highway, a horn beeped, and a siren sounded, and then both faded away. Jorge swallowed slowly, the dry dusty air cutting the back of his throat as he eased out into the cooler air of the room. His sweat soaked clothing clung to his flesh. He felt free and laughed a little, thinking himself silly for being so afraid.

 The light exploded onto his face, a searingly bright beam directed from one of the armed chairs near the door, the force of its radiant shaft striking Jorge blind. He thought it was a gun going off at first, and the light, a bullet striking him. He actually stagged back a step, shoulder slamming painfully into the edge of the closing bookcase door. When he realized it was only light, he lifted his hand to cover his eyes, catching a glimpse of the shadowy figure behind the flashlight.

 "Where is it?" the harsh voice demanded, whispered in such a way to keep its owner from being recognized, and yet Jorge sensed a familiarity in it. Was it Demetre after all?

 "Wh-What?" Jorge shuddered.

 "Don't play games with me, fool," the voice warned as the light rose, the shadowy figure standing up from the chair. Both flashlight and figure advanced. Something blunt struck Jorge in the stomach. This sharp pain stole his breath and he gasped; mouth wide open, unable to even cry out. He staggered forward this time, both arms clutching his middle.

 "Where is it?" the voice asked again.

 "I - I don't know wh.."

 The figure struck Jorge even harder the second time, above where his crossed arms protected his stomach, sending him flat into the wall of books.

 "No, no, d-don't hit me anymore," he managed to gasp out.

 "Then stop giving me shit, boy," the voice said, as something stirred behind the shadowy figure, something soft and warm and deadly. Jorge sniffed. His eyes opened. He knew that smell, having smelled it around the house for the last few months.

 "It's you?" he said.

 The third blow struck Jorge on the side of the head, knocking the next sentence straight out of his head. He felt his neck snap as his hear recoiled, his left temple striking the shelf as he slid to the floor.

 "Never mind who I am, where is the dope?"

 Jorge stared up at the figure still hidden behind the light, though now he could make out the familiar outline of the face. In the back of his head, another voice whispered, the master of the house outlining the rules by which everyone here had to live.

 "Never betray the secret of the package," that voice said. "We depend on it too much to live."

 From the proceeds of its dope, the house bought groceries, paid its utilities, and purchased all the other small things that made life here at the house possible and bearable, and yet, what was the point of protecting it now with all the other secrets of the house exposed. The raid had made it impossible for life to continue on as it had before.

 "Where is the dope?" the shadowy figure asked, raising something in the dark to strike Jorge again.

 "I don't know," Jorge heard his own distant-sounding voice say. "The cops must have taken them."

 "Liar!" the shadow said and struck Jorge once more with the barrel of what appeared to be a gun. "Is it in the room behind the bookcase?"

 "No, really, the cops took it. That Demetre guy must have..."

 "Demetre?" the voice said, a bit of its harshness fading with the shift to surprise. "Here?"

 "He came with the raid. I listened to him as he and the sheriff talked."

 "Damn!" the shadow hissed. "Of all the fucking luck."

 "I'm sorry," Jorge moaned. "I didn't mean to make you mad."

 "Mad?" the figure said. "You don't know what mad means."

 A spark of sharp red light appeared out of the shadowy figure's other hand. It came with a bang and a sudden, more penetrating pain in Jorge's chest. A warm liquid streamed down from the hole it left. He felt his feet and hands go numb, and then followed the movement of that numbness as it worked up his arms and legs to his head, bringing with it a new kind of darkness.

 

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