markwildyr.com,
Post #122
What, oh
what, is Hawk to do? He and Grove are involved in solving a mystery that might
set off a deadly drug war if it isn’t solved. At the same time, Hawk’s fighting
a one-sided love affair that the other side isn’t even aware of. And as we’ve
seen, Grove’s a very physical guy, taking on a truck driver twice his size over
a perceived insult. Read on.
*****
GROVE
A Curt Huntinghawk Story
Neither Hawk nor Grove
was in very good shape when the phone rang early the next afternoon. “Sorry to
bother you Hawk, but the sheriff’s calling for you’n Grove?”
An hour later, the
sheriff did a double take when he set eyes on Grove. “Damn, I won’t ask,” He
cleared his throat. “Somebody shot up an INS vehicle early this morning. Two agents
are okay, bailed out and hit the ground. Feds are holding it close to their
vests, but I’m going out for a look around. Figured you might help.” The lawman
threw a thumb Grove’s way. Now I ain’t so sure after looking at him.”
INS and DEA were both on
the scene when they got there. Any viable tracks were long destroyed, even so Hawk
and Grove found where two men had set up an ambush of the agents. The fact the
bushwhackers had picked the low ground was all that saved the two agents. The
two Rezes also found the tracks of several men and concluded that the drug mules
had armed escorts.
"It’s a fucking war,” the
sheriff mumbled. “No doubt about it.”
“Why an INS vehicle?”
Grove asked through his cracked lip.
"Losses too heavy, I
guess,” the DEA agent with them commented. “Wasn’t going to lose this one to
INS or anybody else. This means it’s open season on law enforcement officers. Better
warn Amadeo, Hawk.”
The next three weeks were
relatively peaceful, but drug interdictions by the Rezagados were down
to almost zilch. It was as if the drug cartels had shut down the flow of the
stuff through the area. Then one of the Rez teams stumbled on another body shot
through the chest same as the other. The kill was relatively fresh. Hawk and
Grove examined the site with the sheriff and a DEA man. The two Indians
exchanged glances.
“Got the wrong man,”
Grove said through an almost healed mouth.
“What you mean?” Reed
demanded.
“This guy wasn’t running
product. He was probably an illegal crossing over.”
“Why you think that?” the
DEA man asked.
“Look at him. Body hasn’t
been disturbed. No sign of a pack or duffel on the ground. Killer didn’t even
come all the way to the body,” Grove explained.
“Damnation!” the sheriff
said. “Killing innocents now!”
“It’s the same killer,
though,” Hawk said quietly.
“Damned right it is,” the
sheriff said. “Same M.O…everything.”
When they walked back to
their vehicles, the lawman said he was headed to INS for a meeting with them
and the DEA. “I haven’t told them about the tire track we found with the first
kill. Gonna do it today. You boys’re welcome to come along.” They agreed.
After parking behind the
sheriff in the far end of the parking lot, they got out of their four-by and joined
Reed. The big lot was graveled, but in places the gravel had worn thin and
sandy spots appeared. As they walked toward the office, Hawk and Grove halted and
called the sheriff back. Trying not to make it obvious, they showed the lawman a
perfect imprint of the tire of the killer’s vehicle.
“Shit!” Reed cursed. “No
wonder those traficantes shot up an INS car. It’s an INS agent killing
them! Well, this changes things, boys. Ain’t gonna say a thing about tire
tracks. How old’s that fucking print anyhow?”
“Probably made yesterday,”
Grove said. Hawk nodded agreement.
The meeting was a waste
of time. Reed wasn’t about to let go of what he had, and nobody else seemed to
have anything. Hawk looked over the six white and Hispanic men at the meeting. Was
one of them the killer.
Grove hadn’t been out
catting since he got messed up at the Blue Mesa, and it was beginning to tell
on him. “Friday afternoon he started agitating for a trip south.
It didn’t happen. They
stopped by the Mesa on the way out of town and never made it out of the place. Grove
hit the beer keg and didn’t stop until Hawk drove him to his house and spilled
him into bed in the spare bedroom. Once again, he removed his friend’s
clothing. His hand touched a nipple, and he resisted the urge to taste it. His
hand traced a path down Grove’s chest, his belly and came to rest atop his
partner’s groin.
“Wha…what the fuck you
doin’?” Startled, Hawk jerked his hand back and looked into Grove’s confused
eyes. The confusion changed to shock and morphed into anger. Grove bounded out
of the bed and took a drunken swing at him. Hawk absorbed it on his shoulder
and backed away.
“Sorry, man. Shouldn’t
have done that.”
“Damn right” Grove
slurred. “Fucking weirdo!” He forgot his anger in his haste to get into his
clothing. Hawk waited in the living room, filled with shame and fear that he’d
ruptured the most important relationship of his life.
Grove stormed out the
front door, reappearing almost immediately. “Give me your fucking keys!”
Hawk tossed them over. “You
oughta let me drive you home.”
Grove didn’t bother to
answer, just spun on his heel. A moment later, the Dodge motor turned over, and
the truck peeled out of the driveway.
Hawk took a beer to the
front porch and let his eyes rove the heavens without taking much solace from the
Creator’s marvels. After thirty minutes, he went inside and picked up the
telephone. When Grove snarled a hello into the phone Hawk put down the
receiver, relieved his friend had made it home. Then he proceeded to drink
every can, every bottle of booze in the place. Oblivion brought peace, even if
it was false and only temporary.
In his dream Grove was
beating on him. One unusually hard blow caused him to open his eyes. Through a blurry
mist, he made out the form of Grover Whitedeer hovering over him. It was broad
daylight and he was lying on the floor. Grove hauled him onto the sofa.
“Here, eat some of this,
you son-of-a-bitch!” A spoon of something hot and tangy got shoved into his
mouth. It took three swallows to identify it as his spicy green chile stew. He
lurched into the bathroom and promptly lost it.
That cleared his head some.
He sat in a kitchen chair and worked on a cup of coffee while Grove paced the
room. “Came to give you your truck back, but you’re too fucked up to drive me
home. Shit, I’ll pick you up for work Monday.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry
about…about…”
“Shut up!” Grove made a
cleaner exit this time.
Monday morning both of
them were in reasonable shape when Grove honked for Hawk. It was uncustomarily
silent on the drive until Hawk spoke. “I’ll ask Amadeo to split us up.”
“Dumb fucking idea. We’re
gonna ask for new partners right in the middle of a murder investigation? Yeah.
Right!”
Hawk flared, a little
tired of the attitude. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
*****
Well, the
cat’s out of the bag now, and Grove didn’t react the way we’d hoped he would.
All that’s holding the partnership together now is the mystery of who’s
conducting the deadly ambushes of drug runners. A rogue INS agent, apparently.
But which one?
As usual
when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then
I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.
Tell your
friends to order a copy of Cut Hand and
Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince
them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished
manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved,
It’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact
information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
The
following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra: Keep
on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on each Thursday
until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of
the month..
