ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Page 9

  Malden stopped and put Toker on a lead. A few minutes later Zack recognized the place they climbed down the night before.

  A tall lanky man in a trooper's hat climbed the slope toward them. Zack recognized Dom Antonio, from the roadblock.

  He arrived breathing noticeably, stared at Zack, nodded to Malden. "Hello, Rick. George said you'd be coming." He aimed a thumb down the slope. "Darby from forensics is down there. He said send you down when you get here. He's got some questions for you." Dom wiped his brow. "I got to wait here for the ICE guys. They're comin' to destroy the marijuana."

  "Thanks, Dom," Malden said. He turned down the slope.

  As Zack turned to follow, Dom looked at him. "You enjoyin' your stay, boy?" he said. His mouth smiled but his eyes didn't.

  "Seems like the fun's just begun," Zack said, surprised by the apparent animosity. He turned away to follow Malden and Toker down the steep path. Not love at first sight, he thought.

  Everything at the crime scene looked different in the light of day. The marijuana grow looked much as he'd remembered, although many more plants were crushed underfoot. Zack could find nothing new where Manuel's body had been. Darby wasn't there, so after a thorough re-inspection of the scene, they descended the slope to the shelter. Again, their inspection revealed nothing new.

  "I'm down here." Darby's voice floated up.

  They went on down, found Darby at the mysterious blood pool, now black and viscous. He wore rubber gloves and knelt over an open black toolbox. He placed a blood sample in a test tube.

  "Any idea yet who belongs to this blood?" Malden said.

  "Good morning to you too." Darby glanced up at him. "The lab's doing a DNA search, but it will take a while." He lifted the test tube. “I’ve got a few more samples for other tests." He shook his head. "You may have heard I got prints off the rifle, but none are on file. Not so surprising, they're probably illegals. One set matches the corpse, again no surprise. I've sent both sets to Mexico with my fingers crossed. I can't tell you much from this blood, other than the fact that the guy who used to own it isn't in this world anymore." He stared up at Malden. "You got to find me a body."

  Malden grunted. "We're sure gonna try."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "I think that was our cue," Malden said. "Let's find a body."

  Zack nodded absently, his eyes already on the ground. He walked over to the yellow tape, worked along it to the outside. After one complete circumnavigation he turned and retraced his steps. He stood and shook his head.

  "Nothing?" Malden said.

  "Not a trace."

  "What now?"

  "Let's try the approach path," Zack said. He stepped beyond the yellow tape, studied the ground. Every few feet he searched right and left of the path for anything out of place. The ground here was littered with live oak leaves, shaped like tiny cups, very brittle. Zack noticed some leaves looked crushed. He knelt, brushed the leaves away. There was a slight imprint in the earth. He studied it.

  "Got something?" Malden stood behind him.

  "Yeah. Take a look."

  Malden knelt, inspected it.

  "What do you think?"

  Malden stared at the depression. "It could be anything. It's just a slight depression."

  Zack's eyes moved to the side of the depression. "Impressions don't just happen. Something makes them." He spoke with measured words, as if to himself. "I don't see any more, but I almost didn't see this one. Someone walked very softly here, barely crushed these brittle leaves."

  "Why did he slip up here?"

  Zack glanced at Malden. "He didn't. Think about it. The depth of the imprint depends upon the force he exerts, whether he walks, stands, jumps or whatever. The shape here is oval. It's a strong impression. It's the first we've found––"

  Malden's eyes widened. "I get it! The guy was kneeling. That's the imprint of his knee."

  "There you go. Now you're thinking like a tracker. I don't think he was kneeling, though. I think he was crouching." Zack traced the outline of the depression with his finger. "This is the ball of his foot. It's not a shoe; it's some sort of moccasin. If I'm right..." Zack pushed away leaves two feet to each side of the imprint, scanned the bared earth. He saw it now, a slight ridge. "Here's the other foot. The oval shape is distinct; all his weight is on the balls of his feet. It narrows toward the upslope side; he faced the blood, crouched here."

  "I see it now," Malden said. "He crouched here, and waited?" Malden stared back up the path at the yellow tape. "Then...?"

  "I don't know. We have to be patient and process the clues as we find them. This doesn't give us a lot, but we can take away a couple of things. He's a big guy, the width his forefoot and the distance between the impressions tells us that. He's at home in the woods; his woodcraft is among the best I've seen."

  "He?"

  Zack shrugged. "I've made that assumption from his size." He stood and stretched, pointed down the path. "He came from down there."

  It took ten minutes for the men to work their way to El Camino Burro. They left no bush, twig, or leaf unturned. Once on the well-worn transverse path, they looked in one direction, then the other.

  "How do we know which way he went?"

  "Damn good question," Zack said. "We can't really be sure he was even here, since we've found no more sign." He studied El Camino Burro. "It's unlikely he would cross this path and go on down through that brush––it's very thick, it would be hard not to leave prints in that soft soil. We have to assume he went left or right. Left takes us back to the road, the campground, and more populated areas. I'm going with right." Zack looked down at Toker. "Your dog has an opinion."

  The dog tugged on his lead toward the right. "Toker says turn right."

  They did. The hard packed earth of El Camino Burro left no prints. They relied entirely on Toker. The dog pulled Malden along at a steady trot while Zack watched for signs that anyone had left the trail. The well-traveled path led through tall chaparral and trees. Whenever a secondary trail turned off, the men gave the intersection a minute examination. Toker was impatient; he always wanted to go straight on. He whined impatiently each time the men stopped.

  Malden's phone buzzed. He spoke in it for a moment, put it away. He grimaced. "Toker and I have to go. Jeremy Tusco, the other ranger, needs the dog. He's waiting up at the crime scene. You alright on your own for a while?"

  Zack nodded. "Where shall we meet?"

  "I'll come back here when I return. We can get to the truck along this same trail in the other direction."

  After Rick and Toker left, Zack slowed his pace. Without Toker's nose and a second pair of eyes he needed to be more circumspect. He moved slow, found progress difficult.

  "Hello."

  Zack was startled. He felt foolish he hadn't noticed the person just off the pathway; a woman, a girl, really. She sat cross-legged, her back against a tree. A squirrel scampered away from her at Zack's approach. She wore buckskin leather pants, faded almost white, a beige tank top. Her shoulders and arms were brown from the sun. Chestnut hair, cut short at her ears, curled up, framed her face. Her arms lay in her lap, an acorn in her hand. Somber brown-black eyes regarded Zack.

  "Hello yourself." Zack went from startled to confused. He didn't expect to see an attractive girl where he tracked a killer.

  "I've waited a long time." Her voice was soft, almost a caress. She didn't smile, yet projected warmth.

  "Waited for what?"

  "You are the esteemed tracker from Navajo Land, yes?"

  Zack was perplexed. "Uh, yes...I guess..."

  She laughed now, a merry tinkling sound. "I am your guide."

  "You?"

  "Is there something wrong with that?"

  "Uh, no. Of course not."

  "You were focused on the ground as you came. What do you track?"

  Zack felt a touch of annoyance at this interrogation. "Someone with moccasins...like yours."

  Amusement flickered across her face. She glanced at her f
eet. "Not mine, I think. The moccasins you follow are much larger."

  The girl was full of surprises. "You know who I'm tracking?"

  She stood in one graceful motion. He noticed a bone handled knife at her waist. She stepped down to the trail. Long legged, she was as tall as he. "You are tracking a large man, very strong and agile. His stride is long. He moves as one with the forest, a predator."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "I follow the signs, as you do." Her eyes showed amusement.

  "Then I must be on the right track."

  "Did you doubt it, great tracker?"

  "Look, who told you I––"

  She put out her hand before he could finish. It was delicate, feminine. "I'm Tomasa. My friends call me Tommy."

  Zack felt off balance again, yet couldn't help but grin back. "I'm Zack Tolliver."

  "Well, Zack Tolliver, shall we do this?"

  "Before we do, you need to know this man I follow is dangerous. He's killed a professional assassin and carried off the body somehow. You don't need to get involved in this."

  Tommy's eyes glowed with amusement. "I will stay safely behind you."

  Zack stared, confused again, uncertain. He shrugged. "Fine." He nodded toward the path. "Where does this trail lead?"

  "It hugs the slope to where the ridge ends. There it intersects with the summit trail." Tommy stood aside for Zack to take the lead.

  He did, but the man they followed left no sign of his passage. There were no disturbances, or other indications that he left the trail. Thirty minutes later the trail ended at the face of the ridge, as Tommy had said, and forced a choice. They could turn up the ridge trail and back along its crest, or drop down a steep path on loose shale to the valley floor.

  Zack looked in both directions. From his vantage point the valley floor was a large brown clearing with green splotches where oak trees clustered. A streambed the color of light coffee meandered through it. Steep slopes of black chaparral angled down on all sides. There was no way to know which way the man had gone.

  Tommy pointed to the southeast. "The Sisquoc River Valley is over the next ridgeline. Beyond it is the backcountry east of Zaca Mountain. He might have gone that way."

  Zack gazed out over the ranges. "What makes you think so?"

  "It's desolate, uninhabited. He can disappear there." She peered at Zack. "What will you do?"

  "Try to find him." He glanced at his watch. "Right now, I have to go back to meet up with the ranger, Rick Malden. I will try to get an early start tomorrow." Zack glanced at her. "Will you come?"

  She nodded.

  Zack watched her face. "You know this area quite well, I suspect, since the Chumash sent you to guide me. What do you know about this...person we follow?"

  Tommy gazed out over the mountains. "I have roamed these hills for as long as I can remember. I love them. They are peaceful, restful. When the men from Mexico came to grow the pagee, the marijuana, on these slopes, all that changed. They disrespected the land, polluted it. They disagreed among themselves, shot guns at one another." She waved an arm to encompass the mountains. "The peace that was here was disrupted." She studied Zack's face. "There is someone here, a protective presence, powerful beyond the evil of the drug traffickers. Their warlike ways stirred him to action. He hunts them now." Her steady gaze regarded Zack. "He is the one you track."

  A dark foreboding seized Zack. "Have you seen this...presence?"

  "I have seen signs of him. I have seen the sites of his kills.

  "The blood?"

  Tommy didn't answer. She looked away.

  "You think the blood is from a trafficker, that this...protector killed him."

  Gentle brown eyes regarded him. "You ask the question, yet you know the answer."

  Zack stared off across the vastness. "I suppose I do."

  Her words came with quiet authority, as if to a child. "It is your time to make a decision. Do you want to go on with this? You could go home, leave it alone. There is a balance to nature; this presence is part of it. You should think about that."

  Zack stared off across the mountains, thoughtful, undecided.

  "If you decide to return tomorrow, I will help you." Tommy said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Zack met Malden as planned, part way along El Camino Burro. He was sans Toker. Duty called; the dog's particular skills were needed in another part of the National Forest.

  "That dog is more important to the forestry service than me," Rick said.

  Malden had a lot of questions, and Zack had few answers. No, he did not know whom they tracked along the El Camino Burro. No, he knew nothing about Tommy other than her name and her appearance. No, there was no rendezvous assigned to meet their Chumash guide the next day, she would find them. No, Zack did not know where she had gone, simply that she went another way.

  Malden dropped Zack at the hotel, with plans to meet him for breakfast in the hotel dining room early the next morning.

  In a day full of surprises, Zack had another one in store. As he entered the hotel lobby, his friend and mentor Eagle Feather looked up at him from an armchair. Zack failed to recognize him at first; when he did, he was overcome by astonishment.

  Eagle Feather climbed up from his chair, amused by Zack's look.

  "What are you doing here?" Zack demanded.

  "Somebody's got to look after you, White Man."

  Eagle Feather was Zack's first and best friend at the Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona after he arrived as a young FBI agent fresh from the academy. He was assigned to the FBI liaison office in Tuba City, his job to work with the Navajo Nation Police, learn the ropes. Eagle Feather was his guide.

  At first, the Navajo tracker didn't try to hide his contempt for the city-bred agent he guided. Zack proved he was different from other agents. He didn't put on airs, he asked questions, he listened to the answers. Eagle Feather took him under his wing, taught him the things he needed to know on the Reservation. Their friendship grew. They became a formidable team, Eagle Feather with his guide skills and his knowledge of Navajo ways, Zack with his stubborn persistence, FBI training and well-grounded logic. A marriage of opposites, the two friends learned to respect one another's differences, use one other as a sounding board.

  The entry of a third party into this close relationship in the form of widowed bloodhound trainer Libby Whitestone did not disrupt their chemistry. She became someone special in Zack's life, yet always honored the deep friendship between the two men. Eagle Feather stood with Zack at his wedding, later agreed to be godfather to their firstborn.

  Now he stood here, completely unexpected, a rare smile on his face from Zack's astonishment. "Libby said to tell you since she couldn't be here, it was up to me to keep you out of trouble. Luke Forrester even promised a stipend to help you out."

  All Zack could do was grin like an idiot. "How'd you get here so fast?"

  "Forrester put me on a corporate jet headed from Flagstaff to Vandenberg Air Force Base on FBI business. They landed at Santa Maria Airport to drop me off."

  "Well, aren't you something special."

  Eagle Feather just smiled. "I noticed a bar down the hall there. Let's go grab a beer. You can tell me what's going on."

  Eagle Feather drew the usual stares when they walked into the hotel bar. Never one to disappear into the woodwork, he wore a bright red paisley shirt with a black vest and black leather pants. He topped the outfit off with his signature black felt hat and solitary bedraggled eagle feather. He wore his silver-streaked black hair down his back in a thick braid, his rugged, sun-darkened face wore a habitual aspect of fierceness that belied the man's true nature.

  The beers arrived. Eagle Feather took a long drink of his ale, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, turned to Zack. "What mess are you in this time, White Man?"

  Zack laughed. "I've been asked to help local law enforcement with a case. It seems I somehow established a reputation as a good tracker who gets along with indigenous populations." He glanced sid
elong at Eagle Feather. "Go figger!"

  "Sounds like they screwed up on both counts."

  Zack shook his head. "They've got a real mess here. They've got cartels growing marijuana and killing each other off on National Forest land, land that's sacred to the Chumash Indians. They've got illegals and Panga boats and farm workers disappearing. They've got someone else out there killing off the cartel members. A Chumash guide tells me there's some sort of malignant presence in those mountains." He eyed Eagle Feather. "That's all."

  "Sounds like old times." Eagle Feather set down his beer. "What's the plan?"

  "Tomorrow I meet the forest ranger for breakfast. Then we find the Chumash guide and go back on the trail of the guy who killed the killer."

  "You tracked him today?"

  Zack nodded. "We had to give it up for the night. Tomorrow we'll stay on this guy's trail for the long haul. I came back to get my gear and some sleep."

  Eagle Feather eyed Zack. "What's your jurisdiction here?"

  "I guess the answer to your question is, my jurisdiction is muddy. I'm more of a guest, so technically I don't call the shots."

  "Yeah, I thought so. You've got yourself into another mess."

  Zack studied the lacing in his glass, glanced at Eagle Feather. "It may be worse than you think." He described the blood pool, the almost complete lack of sign left by the killer. "There's something unreal about it. I stared at all that blood, with no body, no clues, told myself, this can't be."

  Eagle Feather put a hand on Zack's arm. "I know what you're thinking. Let's not go jumping to conclusions. Not every clever killer is a Skinwalker, or some other mythical creature."

  "You're right," Zack said. His face dissolved into a warm smile. "I'm sure glad to see you."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Jesus awoke early the next day, the swelling of his knee was down. He could dress and put on his sandals without much pain. His recovery had begun. In a way, this new assignment was a blessing; the constant bending in the fields did not allow his knee the time it needed to heal. Just one day of rest had done wonders.