Just Needs Killin' (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 6) Page 9

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jenks is a pilot, and when an aviator says, "Oh, hell, we're going down," it can only mean one thing.

  I went cold with fear. It took me forty years to find, stalk, and snare the world's greatest guy, and now he's crashing into some godforsaken desert? "No!" I screamed.

  Po Thang jumped to his feet and looked guilty.

  I reached out and gave him an ear rub. "Sorry. You haven't done anything that deserves an N-O, sweetie," I told him, spelling the dreaded word so as not to upset him further. He looked relieved and licked my hand. Poor thing already thinks his second name is, "Sit-and stay."

  I tried calling Jenks back, got nowhere, grabbed a glass of wine and went out on deck to wash down my fears. What seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes later, my cellphone rang.

  "Hetta. Sorry about that. The prince and I are out practicing with his RC helicopter, and something went wrong."

  "What? Oh, my god, you did crash. Are you and Prince Faoud all right?"

  "What? Of course we are."

  "Thank goodness. You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing flying the prince's helicopter?"

  There was a pause, then Jenks started laughing, which pissed me off. First he scares the poop out of me, and then laughs about it? What kind of nut case had he turned into over there?

  "Okay you s.o.b., I'm hanging up now. You can take your helicopter and shove it—"

  "Wait, Hetta, I'm sorry. It's a radio controlled helicopter. You know, a model airplane."

  "Oh."

  I was relieved Jenks was still alive. Honest. But as I tossed in my lonely bed—okay, maybe not so lonely, now that a golden retriever manages to take over way more than half of it—I became annoyed.

  Jenks was living as a guest of Prince Faoud in Dubai. A Saudi prince who, by the way, was my friend first. Jan and I met him during the aftermath of a hurricane in Magdalena Bay the year before, a doozy of a storm that threatened both our boats, if you can call Golden Odyssey, the prince's two hundred and fifty foot yacht, a boat. Hell, the "little" boat he trails behind his yacht, just in case he wants to go big game fishing, is almost as large as Raymond Johnson.

  So, here I was stuck at anchor in a Baja backwater while the two men yucked it up in the lap of luxury, and flew model airplanes that, knowing the prince's extravagant tastes and limitless pocketbook, cost more than my boat.

  I stewed all night, then called Jan the next morning to vent. After listening to my rant, she drawled, "Lemme get this straight. You've got your panties in a twist because Jenks is letting you do what you want to do, instead of what he wants you to do, which is go live with him in Dubai in the most luxurious hotel in the world?"

  After I hung up on all that logic, I decided to take Po Thang out for a beach party, so we could both cool off. I took a snorkel and fins, along with my light-weight Lycra neck-to-ankle, form-fitting, sea-critter-keeper-offer, bodysuit. It isn't the most flattering piece of clothing I own, and I rarely wear it without a tee shirt to cover up some less than lovely bumps, but Po Thang doesn't notice. He's too happy splashing around and trying to drown me on the occasional pass by putting his front feet on my shoulders and pushing me under. Luckily I'm able to fin him off.

  I am the original chicken of the sea, but I love to putter around in shallow water and spy on fish and stuff. Unfortunately, I've been stung, bitten, and generally terrorized by more than one salty threat, and for some reason I think that sheathing myself in a thin layer of Lycra protects me from harm. Not logical, of course, but it works for me.

  The water was clear and seventy-eight degrees, just the way I like it. My chosen reef, which was actually more of a pile of rocks, harbors myriad brightly-colored fish, some of them just tiny bright blue streaks, others multi-hued and larger. Itsy bitsy baby octopi, no larger than a fingernail, abound. I was hoping for a seahorse, but didn't get that lucky. Before I knew it, two hours passed and by the time I got back to the boat my outlook had lightened immensely.

  I gave both myself and Po Thang a fresh water rinse off, poured a glass of wine, and went out on the sundeck to let my hair air-dry while I determined my next move.

  Jan was right: Jenks had invited me to join him in Dubai, but I stubbornly refused because I am stubborn. He says my independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place, although I think he may have rethought that a time or two.

  I called Jan back. "I'm pissed off because I'm stupid, and that is really hard to fix."

  "So fix it anyhow. Get that boat into a slip, jump a plane, and go."

  "I just might. But the truth is, I'd worry about you. After all, there is still that Ishikawa/Lujàn thing."

  "I'm touched. Okay, I'll come with you."

  "What? You can't. You have to keep my dog. And speaking of which—" I went on to tell her about the GPS tracker chip Craig was shipping for Chino to implant in Po Thang. Somehow Po Thang sensed we were discussing him, and not in a good way, and frowned at me.

  I told Jan and she giggled. "I swear, Hetta, that dog understands everything we say."

  "Then why doesn't he mind better?"

  "Cuz he takes after you."

  Spaghetti and meatballs were on the dinner menu, along with a salad, and heated garlic bread. Po Thang gave the salad a sniff and a miss.

  We ate out on deck, as the evening was uncommonly warm, a reminder that summer was coming on fast and I had to make a decision on what I was going to do with mine.

  My contract at the mine ran out in late summer or early fall. That meant attending at least two meetings a month in Santa Rosalia. I could move the boat to the marina there, and still sign on as a cook or whatever for Chino's Manila Galleon/treasure hunt in Mag Bay, where it is nice and cool all summer long. From there I'd drive to the mine site for those meetings and spend the night on my own boat. Po Thang'd have built in baby-sitters aboard Nao de Chino.

  It was the perfect solution with one ragged snag: Lujàn.

  My spirits plunged.

  I was starting to feel like a sitting duck.

  A victim.

  A wuss.

  Coward.

  Shrinking violet.

  Everything I hate in a woman.

  Something I really hate in me.

  It was that last bit that had me pulling Po Thang close for a comforting hug. Comforting for me; he was comfortably asleep when I grabbed him. After a little grumbling he gave me a nose lick, and I smelled sweet doggy breath with a hint of garlic.

  He depended on me to feed him and keep him safe. Mostly from himself, but he didn't know that. I had let him down, but he didn't know that either. He'd been held hostage with my mean old aunt, and wasn't very pleased about it, but it was why he was held with her that stuck in my craw.

  Lujàn.

  Once again on the verge of tears, I wrapped my arms around Po Thang's warmth and fell asleep on the carpet. My last thought was that for someone who rarely cries, there was way too much of it lately.

  When I awoke at midnight, I was stiff. And I heard music.

  Disoriented, I sat up and listened. The music was in my head.

  A team of buglers played an eerie rendition of a song that sends a chill down the spine of any Texan: The Deguello.

  Most people have only heard it at bullfights. It is what they play when the matador receives his killing, throat-cutting, sword. And it is what the men at the Alamo awoke to the morning of that battle; Mexican president Santa Anna's musical message that he would give no quarter.

  Drawing a mental line in the sand, I conjured up an adoring roar from the bullring fans, executed a theatrical sideways stance, swooped a throw around my body, and held it up dramatically. Snapping the blankie in front of my dog, I challenged, "¡Toro! Aqui!"

  Po Thang scooted backwards so fast he tripped over himself, landed in a heap, regained his dignity with a mighty shake, and gave me a dirty look.

  I dropped my cape and gave him a hug. "I'm so sorry sweetie. Trust me, it ain't
you who ain't gonna get no quarter. Okay, I think that was a double negative, but you know what I mean. That filthy dog-snatching coward, Lujàn, is on notice from this day forward. How dare he kidnap you?"

  He snorted in agreement, and I added, "And to make matters worse, he gave Lillian back."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I'd call it Plan B, but since I never had a Plan A, I guess it was just a plan.

  The definition of a plan is: A series of steps to be carried out or goals to be accomplished.

  Okay, then, let us start with goals to be accomplished.

  Ultimate goal: Take down Lujàn, once and for all. Note to self: define "take down."

  Steps to accomplish feat? I have no freaking idea.

  Accomplishing lofty goals is kind of like playing pinball for me. For instance, I'm an engineer, but it wasn't a bar I set for myself. I just ricocheted through several schools in several countries until I found one that kept my interest, which is why it took me forever to graduate. However, reaching a goal by bouncing around barriers, or sometimes right through them, usually gets the job done for me these days, although, at times, leaves me, and everyone around me, somewhat the worse for wear. But, hey, why mess with a working system?

  Every plan needs an accomplice. Preferably an unsuspecting one.

  "Jan, wanna take a boat ride?"

  "Sure. Where we goin'?"

  "La Paz. Gonna put the boat in a nice safe marina for the summer, and join you and Chino on the treasure hunt in Magdalena Bay."

  "Cool. But didn't a couple of marinas in La Paz get wiped out in a hurricane a few years back."

  "Yeah, that's why I'm going there. What are the odds of that happening again?"

  "In your case? I'd say pretty darned good."

  "Look, hurricane season is a long time from now, so I've decided to come spend the summer with you guys if you want me. Much cooler during the summer at Mag Bay, and besides, you'll have the privilege of dog sitting when I drive up to Santa Rosalia a couple of times a month."

  "Sounds very reasonable. Which means you're up to no good. You are never reasonable. What gives?"

  Sigh. The woman knows me all too well. "I'll tell you on the way to La Paz."

  "When do we leave?"

  "ASAP. Have Chino and a couple of his electronically talented cousins bring you over. And ask them to bring an extra truck. I see no reason to leave a perfectly good Sat system on my boat when we can use it on Nao de Chino. That way we'll have fast Internet and even television. Plug more airtime into the expedition budget, okay? It won't be cheap, but at least Chino won't have to spring for that new communications system he wants for the summer, right?"

  "So, Missy Generous, how much are you gonna gouge him for renting your system?"

  "You wound me."

  "Yeah, yeah. How much?"

  "Half the price of a new one."

  "Piracy!"

  "Aargh, matey."

  Not convinced I wasn't still being watched, or somehow bugged, even though I gave those lowlife-dog-napping-so-and-sos my camera, I inspected my boat, over and over again, with the scrutiny of the paranoiac I am, and found nothing, but was still taking no chances. I drove into Loreto, bought a cellphone from Telcel, then found an Internet café and used their computer to send out an email with the new number to Jenks, or anyone who might want to call me on a Mexican number.

  I dropped into the port captain's office and told them my VHF radio was acting up, but I was leaving Puerto Escondido for La Paz, and might not be able to call them when I exited port.

  At the marina office in PE, I cancelled myself from the slip waiting list because I was leaving for La Paz.

  The next day I drove to Mulege, dropped Po Thang off with friends there, telling them I was leaving for La Paz with the boat, but would pick him up in a few days. He wasn't happy getting saddled with a couple of Dalmatians for company, but it was for his own good.

  Jan and the wrecking crew arrived, and we carefully dismantled the Sat system, with me diagramming and tagging each and every part and wire. I also made sure Chino's cousins knew we were leaving for La Paz before they took off for home. By the next day, thanks to the cousin's chinwagging ways, everyone in the Mag Bay area would know where we were headed.

  We said our goodbyes to the fleet at PE during the morning net, telling everyone we were going to take maybe ten days cruising down to La Paz, then we headed south. We passed the resort where this whole disaster started, made a sharp left, went out to sea for five miles, then turned north, and made a beeline for Santa Rosalia.

  If Lujàn and his spies were keeping tabs on me, they wouldn't be able to locate my boat for days, thereby giving me time to sneak up on him and knock his Dickless self in the dirt.

  Sometimes I am absolutely brilliant.

  "Ya know, Hetta, this is plumb dumb."

  So much for my brilliance. "Why?"

  "Lujàn has about a bajillion people in the Baja who feed him info for a few hundred pesos. He gets wind of properties in dispute and moves in to snatch them. When permits are applied for, he knows, and can buy up the property next door, stuff like that. He'll know we're in Santa Rosalia an hour after we get there."

  We were about fifteen miles southeast of Santa Rosalia, where I'd planned a late arrival so no one in the marina office, or the port captain's, would know about us until mid-morning the next day, when I had to check in. "But, we'll catch the bus to Puerto Escondido, get my pickup and Po Thang, head for Lopez Mateos, and join Chino on the research vessel. No one will know where I went."

  "And then what?"

  "I figure, what with Chino's family's deep roots in the Baja, maybe they'll know where that pig, Lujàn, is lurking."

  "And then?"

  "How about we hire American Hoggers, have them round him up, and grind him into sausage?"

  Jan got a dreamy look on her face. "I love that show." She shook her head to clear what I knew were fond memories of her days as a goat roper. Of course, roping goats is a far cry from those two Texas gals—Jan's heroes—on American Hoggers. Those tough women crash through snake-infested underbrush hot on the tails of baying hounds, and then pounce on two-hundred-pound porkers sporting six inch tusks, hog-tie them, and haul them off to a local sausage factory.

  "But," she said, "won't work down here. You're right, though, we need to remove the dog-stealing, beheading bastard from our lives. Don't you just hope he had to deal with Lil himself while they had her?"

  "He didn't. Lil didn't tell me much, but she did say she and Po Thang were together in a nice apartment, and the food was better than mine. The only person she saw was the kid who brought meals. She bribed him to sneak in hooch."

  "She told you that?"

  "Naw, but I know her. She called him 'a polite young man whose manners belied his station in life.' That means he brought her booze."

  Jan smiled. "Underwear money, right?"

  As the sun lowered toward the horizon, we were running on a glassy sea, with a slight southerly behind us. The air was so clear we could see the tip of the Tetakawi peaks in Sonora, seventy miles away. Under these ideal conditions, we'd spotted several whales, lots of dolphins that ran with us for awhile, a giant manta ray, and even a shark. Had we not been on the run, it would be an ideal cruise.

  Five miles from Santa Rosalia, Jan decided it was all right for us to have a drink. Docking was going to be a breeze, even after the sun set. The port was fairly well lit, the entrance clearly marked with working—always a miracle in the Sea of Cortez—entry lights. If my old dock was available, I'd glide in there. Piece of cake.

  But, as Jan had asked, then what?

  I sorted options. They were not great. To successfully get lost, we really needed to hide a forty-five foot yacht, and David Copperfield is all booked up in Vegas.

  I spotted a light on the horizon, grabbed binoculars, and identified the Santa Rosalia/Guaymas ferry heading across to Sonora. "Jan, you remember that guy we met in San Carlos."

  "You mean in M
ag Bay?"

  "No, over on the other side. San Carlos, Sonora. We met him in a bar."

  She gave me a look. "Can you, like narrow that down? I can think of maybe a hundred off the top of my head. Did we sleep with him?"

  "Very funny. No, but he was telling us about a free marina in Guaymas. I drove out there one day. No electricity, no water, no nothing. But what it does have is no employees. Only a guard."

  "So?"

  "So, we stash the boat there and ask our new best bar buddy to watch it for me. What do you think?"

  She drained her drink. "I think it's gonna be a long night."

  We arrived in Guaymas early the next morning after tailing the ferry all night. I have to admit it was kind of comforting to keep another boat in sight, even if I did have to kick my boat's engines in the butt to keep up.

  Jan and I didn't take formal watches, but we spelled each other. Neither of us really got more than a couple of hours of sleep, but we slid into the free marina without fanfare, parking behind Island Lady. Bart heard us coming in and helped with our lines. He remembered Jan, of course.

  I didn't know this guy from Adam, but since he was Canadian, I trusted him. I mean, everyone knows there is no crime in Canada, right? I'd bet those Mounties have nothing to do but look good.

  Anyhow, Bart jumped at the chance of earning three hundred a month to keep an eye on Raymond Johnson, so long as I got back before July, when he went home for the summer.

  There was no cell signal in the tiny cove, and my Sat system was being installed on Nao de Chino, so Bart drove us into Guaymas to buy airline tickets, then I called Jenks on my Mexican cellphone. I'd read that Carlos Slim slipped to second place in the Forbes Richest People in the World list, and figured calling Dubai via Telcel might help him out in the ratings.

  After we bought Bart lunch, dinner, and some gas for his car, he agreed to take us to the airport the next morning. It would have been so much cheaper for Jan to sleep with him, but she balked. I think I liked her better as a hooker.