Jenny leaped behind the wheel and gassed it. Spinning the rear tires on the concrete and grass. Pulling out. She dug her phone out of her purse. Dialing 911. “I’m en route to the General Champion ER. I have a man with an open wound to his chest… Yes, appears to be a gunshot wound. Send an ambulance to meet us. I’m northbound on White Sands Boulevard.” She hung up, looking in the rear view at Dr. Elm. He stared back at her. Conscious.
“Jennifer,” Dr. Elm said in a calm, lucid voice. “You have to run. You can never go back. This… is bigger than you know. They’re— hunting—” He struggled to speak. “Everyone — now.”
“Who is?”
“Trest. It’s all Trest. China… next.” He gasped. Struggling to breathe. Curling up.
“Doctor Elm?” She pulled the car over, seeing him clutch his stomach in pain. Jenny rushed to him, laid him down on the seat and checked his pulse. Propping his head up so he could breathe. His eyes opened.
“U--N…” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Doctor Elm… Stuart… Stay with me.” She felt for a pulse on his neck, and started chest compressions. A siren sounded in the distance and a flicker of red lights bounced around the inside of the Benz as the ambulance arrived. Jennifer ignored it, pounding her full weight through clasped hands on his chest, furiously trying to kick start it. Trying to will life back into him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE WATER HOLE
Golden dawn rays broke through trees and glanced off Spanish roof tiles in an older, residential neighborhood of Holloman AFB. A white Chevrolet Impala pulled to a stop at the curb, bearing a New Mexico license plate with an ABQ ALAMO RENT-A-CAR frame. Hal stepped out, wearing the same jeans and brown jacket from his flight, pulling the black Geckskin gloves tight over his hands. He breathed deep, taking in the cool morning air, then scanned the street in both directions. The coast was clear. No early morning joggers and no suspicious activity. He strode across the street, his Geckskin boots were a good match with the jeans. Hal went straight to the stucco wall beside a home and easily scaled it. He had the Geckskin thing down, looking superhuman as he went over the wall in a flash, landing on the move in the backyard. He swiftly traversed a lawn blanketed in morning dew and hopped over the back wall, landing square in Henry’s backyard. He un-holstered his Glock 19 and crouched low, stalking toward the house.
Hal peered into a corner of the window — or tried to. The desert window screen was opaque from the outside during the day. Hal jiggled the door handle. It was open. He entered cautiously, moving to the kitchen on his right first. Clearing it.
Hal backtracked to the living room and stepped down to the sunken area. Henry’s lifeless body emerged into view, stuffed up against the couch where he fell. Hal rushed to his side, setting his gun down to check Henry’s pulse. The stiff body told Hal he had been dead for a while. Rigor mortis set in — no need to check his pulse. Hal noticed severe bruises and scrapes around Henry’s neck, telling him the cause of death. Hal shuddered at the sight of Henry’s hollow and empty eyes staring at the ceiling. Hal closed his friend’s eyes and angled him back the way he found him.
Coffee coasters and magazines were strewn about. The struggle displaced the coffee table and couch. Signs for Hal that Henry put up a fight. He couldn’t stand the sight of his mentor’s lifeless body lying curled and crumpled. Hal’s eyes skipped around the room, landing on a decorative Indian blanket on the wall. He tugged it down and draped it over the body. Hal took a knee and said a prayer for his friend.
Hal searched the floor and surrounding area for Henry’s cell phone. He leaned down, peering beneath the couch and chairs nearby. He started to clean up, putting the magazines and coasters back on the coffee table, then froze. Realizing he could be framed for the murder if he made his presence known there. And maybe that was the plan. It would explain the killer abandoning Henry’s body to whoever discovers it. Hal stared at the mound draped by the Indian blanket, pondering whether to remove the blanket. Hal left it on, not able to disgrace his friend, even if it somehow led back to him.
Hal scanned the surroundings for Henry’s cell phone. He didn’t expect to find it, but gave a quick search just in case. He rolled up his sleeve, reading the smudged cryptic message he scrawled on it at the airport — Henry’s last text… Remmngg321524444… What was he trying to say? Rem… Remember? Hal rose with an epiphany. Remington — his gun case!
Hal sprang to the hall closet nearby, pulling the door open. No gun case. He searched the mudroom, and it wasn’t there either. In all the years he knew Henry, he didn’t have a clue where his gun case was. He considered the only room he had never been in — Henry’s bedroom.
Hal opened the door to the master bedroom decorated in southwestern flair. He spotted the walk-in closet and strode to it, opening the light wooden-shutter door. Revealing an antique gun case with a glass door surrounded by ornate dark wood trip. A brass key was in the lock. Hal turned it, easing the door open to a small arsenal of rifles. He checked a shelf above the rifles, reaching beyond what he could see, pulling down boxes of ammo. He returned them and opened a wooden compartment below the rifles. It was a small rack of hand guns. Air Force standard issue Beretta M9, a Winchester .357, and a showpiece Colt .45. It had Henry’s name, rank, and a shield featuring a lightning bolt striking down from the stars over a knight of armor. Engraved Latin text read, “Tutor et Ultor.” Hal recognized the shield immediately — it was the sigil and motto of Holloman Air Force Base. Protect and Avenge. Hal noticed the barrel, engraved with Fifty Years of Service. A retirement gift to Henry from the Air Force.
Hal’s mind refocused on the task at hand — deciphering the clues Henry left him. Nothing stood out from the gun case. Unless his clue is on one of the guns, Hal thought.
He started with the rifles, angling the .22’s out first checking their manufacturer stamps. Ruger and Marlin. Then the shotguns — a new Franchi Intensity Affinity duck-hunting gun and a double-barreled Browning Superposed. He had two hunting rifles, a Winchester Model 70 deer-hunting rifle and a collector’s item — the 1860 Henry repeater. He doesn’t own a Remington? Hal thought, checking the hand guns — none were made by Remington.
Hal closed the gun cabinet, leaning against the wall, ruminating on Henry’s cryptic text. His eyes wandering around the large walk-in closet, landing on a narrow painting on the thin strip of wall between the walk-in door and the closet wall. It was an oil painting of an old west stagecoach descending a rugged country hill at dusk. A silhouetted gunman rode on top and a warm yellow lantern glowed from within the coach. Hal rose to read the brass placard on the frame. The Old Stage Coach of the Plains. Hal squinted to the corner of the painting, reading the one-of-a-kind signature of the artist, Frederic Remington.
Hal pulled the frame away from the wall — hoping to find the door to a hidden safe, but instead stared at a blank wall painted with Behr eggshell Brown Teepee. Hal took off, scrambling down the hallway. Storming the house. Convinced he solved the cipher. Now he just had to find the Remington Hank was leading him to.
Hal checked every western-themed painting he could find. Rattling and tilting them from the wall. Searching for a hidden safe, concealed key or anything peculiar Henry concealed within one.
Hal upended bronze statues depicting bucking broncos, rugged cowboys, and Indian warriors of the Old West. Eyeing them for clues. He checked the guest bedrooms and bathrooms, looked behind paintings in the living room and dining room, and even checked the mudroom, peering behind the apropos painting of a stagecoach bogged down in mud. No safes. No clues.