Dean Crawford
Immortal
For Debbie
EPIGRAPH
To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.
1
‘They’re out near the Santa Fe Trail. Shots fired.’
Patrol Officer Lieutenant Enrico Zamora pressed down hard on the gas pedal, the Dodge Charger’s V6 engine growling as the patrol cruiser accelerated along the scorched asphalt of Interstate-25 winding into the shimmering desert heat ahead. Broad plains of desiccated thorn scrub swept toward the Pecos Wilderness either side of the highway, while ahead, the jagged peaks of the mountains loomed against the vast blue dome of the sky. The late season was turning the thick ranks of aspens that coated the mountains’ flanks a vivid yellow, the forests glowing in the afternoon sunlight as the cruiser plunged between the steep hillsides of the pass.
‘Any fatalities?’ Zamora asked as he glanced at his partner, his eyes veiled by mirror-lensed sunglasses.
‘Not yet.’ Sergeant Barker shook his head, one hand resting on the Smith & Wesson .357 pistol in its holster at his side. ‘One man is down and another’s injured. Park ranger says that they came under attack.’
‘Chrissakes,’ Zamora muttered, wondering what the hell had happened out there in the lonely mountains.
The call had gone out ten minutes previously for emergency response teams to converge on Glorietta Pass. Eight tourists, tenderfoots down from the Big Apple on what Zamora suspected was some kind of bullshit team-building exercise, had been caught in the crossfire of a gunfight. One of the park rangers had led them out on a horse-riding expedition, in itself a liability, Zamora thought. Most city types didn’t know what a horse looked like, let alone how to ride one. He had seen every injury under the sun suffered by twenty-year-old investment bankers who earned more in a day than he earned in a year, yet couldn’t lift a saddle onto a horse’s back without pulling a muscle
But this was different. He had heard it in the dispatcher’s voice, her tones edgy. Shots were being fired. People were being hit.
‘Just up here,’ Barker said as they turned off the Interstate and roared up a narrow, dusty track that plunged between the walls of a deep gully. Zamora saw his partner still fiddling with his pistol as he ran the other hand over the bald dome of his head.
‘Will you quit it with the weapon?’ Zamora said as he followed the track. ‘I don’t want to see another wild bullet let loose, okay?’
Barker put his hands in his lap but his face remained taut like canvas stretched across a frame. Zamora slowed as, ahead amongst the trees, he saw a group of horses tethered to tree trunks. Crouching amongst them were several men, each staring wide-eyed at the approaching cruiser.
Zamora killed the engine and got out, drawing his pistol and hurrying across with Barker in a low run to where a park ranger was waving urgently at him. The ranger looked at Zamora. He was young, and his skin was flushed with a volatile mixture of excitement and fear.
‘You guys bring back-up?’ he asked.
‘Four more cars and an ambulance are on their way,’ Zamora replied calmly, glancing at the ranger’s pistol. A faint wisp of blue smoke drifting from the barrel told him to expect the worst. ‘What’s the situation?’
The ranger shook his head in disbelief.
‘I ain’t got a clue, man,’ he said. ‘We were makin’ our way back down here when all hell broke loose. Some old guy’s having himself a shouting match with a tenderfoot up on the pass, then he pulls out some kind of old musket and shoots the tenderfoot at point-blank range.’ The ranger gestured over his shoulder to the city slickers behind him. ‘Damned if he didn’t take a shot at us too. One of the guys here panicked and tried to ride past an’ then everything went to hell and the horses bolted. The tenderfoot’s still lyin’ up there bleedin’ out.’ The ranger looked apologetic. ‘I didn’t want to go back up without support.’
Zamora took a deep breath and gestured to the ranger’s pistol. ‘Did you shoot the old guy?’
The young man glanced at his weapon as though he’d forgotten he even had it.
‘Yeah,’ he whispered.
‘You did the right thing. How far away is he?’
‘A hundred yards, give or take.’
‘Stay here,’ Zamora cautioned him, ‘keep an eye on the tourists. Don’t let them move.’
The ranger nodded as Zamora checked his weapon again and moved forward, hugging the rocky side of the trail that climbed up between the tree-studded hills either side of the gully. The sun flared off the rocky terrain. Zamora could hear no birdsong as he climbed, no crickets chirping in the scorched undergrowth. Gunshots could do that, scatter or silence wildlife.
‘You smell that?’
Barker’s voice was a husky whisper, and a moment later Zamora caught the scent of woodsmoke drifting invisibly through the trees. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead as he edged around a bend in the narrow track, hemmed in by thick ranks of trees glowing in the sunlight.
He froze.
There, lying face down in the center of the track was a black man dressed in a checked shirt and gray slacks, not the kind of attire one would wear when hiking in the hills. Zamora could see a thick pool of blood congealing in the dust around the man’s body. A pair of spectacles lay alongside the body where they had fallen.
‘He a dead’un?’ Barker asked in a whisper.
Zamora squinted, lowering the rim of his hat to shield his eyes, and detected the man’s back gently rising and falling.
‘He’s breathing,’ he said, ‘but he’s also leakin’. We need to get him out of there fast.’
Barker nodded, holding his Smith & Wesson with both hands.
‘You want me to do it?’
Zamora looked up at the steep cliff to their side. The faint smell of woodsmoke was stronger now, closer.
‘Looks like whoever did the shooting spent the night here,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe the tourists spooked them or something.’
A soft whinnying caught their attention. Zamora turned to see a horse tethered to a nearby tree, its head hung low. Across its back lay a blanket, and Zamora felt a twinge of concern as he saw the blanket was thick with dried blood.
‘The horse?’ Barker said.
Zamora shook his head, swallowing thickly.
‘That’s not the horse’s blood,’ he said, realizing what he was looking at. ‘The ranger got ’im all right. Go up that gully there,’ Zamora said, pointing up to his right. ‘Get to the high ground in case this lunatic comes back.’
Barker nodded, and they broke cover. Zamora hurried forward, reaching the body and squatting down alongside it. The nearby burgundy spectacles were those of a rich kid, a tenderfoot. He paused for a moment, looking around for any sign of an impending attack, before reaching down and touching the man’s neck. A pulse threaded its way weakly beneath his fingertips. He was about to holster his pistol when the man groaned and rolled over. Zamora judged him as no more than thirty years old, clean-shaven and definitely not a native.
‘Don’t move,’ Zamora cautioned, looking at the bloodstain soaking the man’s left shoulder. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Tyler Willis,’ came the dry-throated response. ‘Don’t shoot him.’
‘Don’t shoot who?’
‘Conley. Hiram Conley. He’s… he’s unwell.’
Zamora squinted up at the heavily forested hills surrounding them.
‘You’re goddamned right there, son,’ he said quietly. ‘We need to get you out of here. You know anything about this Conley?’