“I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for a while,” Bernie said. “I’m the only witness.”
26
Bernie was right. First to arrive was a New Mexico State Police sergeant with a patrolman. They were informed only with a secondhand, passed-along version of what Bernie had told her Border Patrol dispatcher. The sergeant wanted to know which one of them had done the shooting, where was the gun, who was the victim, was that stuff in the little packages some “controlled substance.” Chee’s efforts to add some clarity to this were interrupted by Dashee, who showed his credentials as a U.S. Bureau of Land Management enforcement officer. Dashee began an account of how the cocaine had arrived, which was interrupted by the arrival of a Guadalupe County Sheriff’s car, occupied by a deputy and an undersheriff. This produced a flurry of discussion of who had jurisdiction here, which reminded Bernie that she, as a Customs patrol officer of the U.S. Treasury Department, was actually the officer in charge. But Bernie’s head was still aching, and the bruise hurt. She wisely decided to stop resisting the orders of the paramedic who had arrived in the Border Control copter, to recline on the stretcher and take the pain pills he was pressing on her.
The undersheriff sent his deputy back to the Tuttle Ranch headquarters to confirm the plane was missing and to join the State Police patrolman in making sure roadblocks were at work in case the two unaccounted-for males had driven away in the victim’s missing Range Rover. About then, a dark blue Ford roared up and braked to a stop in a billowing cloud of dust.
Chee had been standing beside the copter, holding the hand of Bernie, who was looking very, very sleepy now. “Who’s that?” Bernie asked.
“Blue Ford sedan,” Chee said. “Two men getting out. Well dressed. Must be the FBI.”
A few minutes later, the taller of the two came hurrying over. He flashed his FBI shield, said he was Special Agent something-or-other, checked Chee’s identity, and looked at Bernie.
“Officer Manuelito? Right? You must have heard those two men talking after the shooting. Did you hear where they were going?”
“She’s in pretty bad shape,” Chee said. “Possible concussion. You should wait until—”
“Stand aside,” Special Agent said, motioning Chee away. “No time to wait. We want those men.”
But Bernie had drifted off into morphine-induced dreams. Or perhaps she was pretending. And thus the paramedic and the copter pilot flew her away to the hospital at Las Cruces, and she missed the arrival of an SUV occupied by Drug Enforcement Agents, and the resulting dispute over which of the agencies had jurisdiction, which was eventually resolved by the arrival of someone representing Homeland Security, who declared himself in charge of the FBI, the DEA, the Border Patrol, the Department of Land Management, and the Navajo Tribal Police.
Sergeant Chee didn’t argue. He was rushing Cowboy Dashee to the BLM vehicle to begin a high-speed journey to Las Cruces to make sure Bernie was being treated gently. And to take her home.
27
Some time passed before Chee could take Customs Patrol Officer Bernadette Manuelito anywhere. First there was an X ray, which showed no fractures, and then stitches to close the deep cut below her hairline, all of which led to two days of doctor-ordered bed rest in the hospital. There she was visited by an amiable FBI agent named Jenkins. He was black, middle-aged by Bernie’s standards, and delighted her by bringing up the same questions that had been troubling her. Why had she been sent to that Tuttle Ranch gate site? What had her supervisor told her she was looking for? How about the “special arrangement” to cooperate with the ranch? And how had the photograph Henry had taken of her, wearing her Big Thunder pin, gotten so quickly into the hands of Mexican drug dealers?
That, above all, stimulated Jenkins’s interest, turned him away from nagging her about where she thought Budge and Diego might have gone, or what their real names might be. It sent him out the room to use his cell phone where she couldn’t hear him. When he came back, he was in a hurry. Just asked Bernie if she had anything else to tell him, said: “Well, thank you then,” and was gone.
The nurse came through the door after him.
“There’s someone out in the hall waiting to see you. You ready for a visitor?”
Bernie was at the closet, getting her uniform on. “I’m ready to get out of here. Go home.” She stopped buttoning her shirt, made a wry face. “Is it another policeman?”
“It’s your young man.”
It was the first time Bernie had heard anyone call Jim Chee “her man.” But now, she thought, the nurse had it right. And it sounded fine.
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed and then send him in,” Bernie said.
EPILOGUE
And so it was. The Sinister Pig was dead, the Pig Trap end of the Sinister Pipeline was safely in the hands of the federals, with the FBI, the DEA, and the Customs Service pushing and shoving for media credit and TV time. Now the TV crews are gone from the south gate of Tuttle Ranch, and the scimitar-horned oryx are grazing there again and all the other players are gone.
First to go were Budge and Diego de Vargas in the Falcon 10, which seemed to belong to the late Rawley Winsor but which, officials of his A.G.H. Industries would be surprised to know, was actually on the A.G.H. inventory. The Falcon is now in the hanger of another of A.G.H. subsidiaries, refueled and refurbished, waiting for Diego to fly it to Jamaica where its paint job and license numbers will be suitably revised.
Budge had flown south too, serving as copilot and instructor, using the Falcon’s phone to call the Mazatlan hotel where Chrissy was installed, telling her what had happened and that he would be at her hotel in two hours.
When the Falcon pulled into the transient aircraft space, she was there waiting. A passionately romantic scene ensued. But who can tell what the future holds for such a pair.
Bureau of Land Management Security Officer Cowboy Dashee, having been the only officer left at the scene with even a hint of jurisdiction, was stuck at the south gate locale until sundown, answering the questions of various other federal officers and working on the explanation he would give his BLM boss for why he was involved in a drug bust more than two hundred miles south of where he was supposed to be.
Joe Leaphorn, the retired Legendary Lieutenant, who had been nowhere near the south gate, didn’t escape the aftermath. Professor Louisa Bourbonette, back from her oral history roamings, handed him the telephone.
“Joe,” she said, “it’s someone named Mary Goddard, and she sounds angry.”
She was. “Mr. Leaphorn, I remind you that when we exchanged information you promised me, a solemn promise, to tip me on any pertinent developments. I thought I could trust you.”
“Well,” said Joe, “ah—”
“Listen to this headline from my competitor’s front page: ‘Socialite Mogul Slain in Drug Raid.’ ”
“I know,” Leaphorn said. “But I wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Down there,” Leaphorn said. “Anyway, your story was the missing money from the tribal trust funds. All that royalty money that—”
“My story was why Stein was killed. The guy with the phony Carl Mankin credit card.”
“I still don’t know.”
“Well, your people out there do,” Goddard said. “Let me read it to you.”
Leaphorn heard the sound of paper rustling.
“Here it is: ‘Officer Manuelito said the conversations she overheard between Winsor and the two men working indicated Stein was killed because the drug dealers believed he was investigating their efforts to use pipeline cleaning devices to smuggle cocaine in from Mexico.’
“ ‘She said Winsor had come to believe that Stein was actually working for a prominent senator—seeking evidence of pipeline use to illegally divert oil or gas shipments in the Interior Department scandal.’ ” Goddard stopped. “What do you say to that?”
