Into Thin Air Page 26

  Kurt hobbled over to a chair next to the telephone. He used the nose of the gun to brush away pieces of glass and sat down. Sunburst stars swirled in his eyes and he felt woozy. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. His calf was hurting bad but the sliver was stuck near a large blood vessel and he didn’t want to remove it on his own. An inch one way or the other and he was in serious trouble.

  Colonel Octavio Panzeca knelt down next to his stepdaughter and placed her bloody head in his lap. He spoke to her in Spanish, a gentle singsong that sounded like a nursery rhyme, and rocked her gently, his pants now streaked with her blood.

  Kurt knew that because of this man Graciela Rojas had gone to her death in the river. He rested the .45 on the arm of the chair and watched the man grieve over the young woman he wanted so desperately to be his daughter, his flesh and blood. He loved her so much he was willing to do anything to keep her his own.

  Kurt thought about killing him but knew that the man was already dead.

  He picked up the telephone. Staggs could make everything right. His men would arrive in a hurry and remove the body to some remote rural morgue where no questions would be asked. The old colonel would get another home, another wife, in Tahoe or Winter Park. They would clean up the blood, sweep out the glass. And maybe this time they wouldn’t leave a little piece of his treachery under the motor guard.

  The telephone began to beep, startling him. He pressed down the tab and closed his eyes and tried to blot out the pain in his leg. He saw his mother painting landscape pictures in her backyard. And he saw Lennon, too, a wonderful boy who would have to live with the sins of his father. He thought about all the people he had loved and lost, and then he dialed the number. Fading in and out of consciousness, he told the voice on the other end very precisely where he was located and what kind of medical attention was necessary. Then he asked for the boss.

  “I need your help,” he said. “Please get here as fast as you can.”

  “Are you all right, Kurt? What the hell’s going on?”

  “You’ll see when you get here,” he said. “There’s a lot we’ve got to talk about.”

  “Okay, hang in there, babe,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

  “And Muffin,” he said, rubbing his forehead, trying to rub out the awful hurting. “Bring Rollins, that young reporter from the Daily News. There’s a story I want to tell him.”

  He hung up and sat there in a haze of pain, listening to a father sing nursery songs to a dead girl in his lap. For the rest of his life Kurt Muller would wonder which one the old man had been aiming at.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Four days later Kurt and Lennon sat in the Phoenix airport, waiting for the flight to arrive. Lennon played with galactic creatures he carried in his backpack, and Kurt read the New York Times account of what had happened in Aspen. The article praised the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Department for uncovering government misconduct while solving a pair of related homicides. County Commissioner Ben Smerlas was quoted as saying, ‘Our sheriff and his staff are sometimes unorthodox in their procedures, but they always get the job done. They have the full support of the commission and the voters in this county.’

  Un-hunh, Kurt thought. Right.

  The loudspeaker announced the plane’s arrival. Kurt folded the newspaper, stood up, and tested his leg. It was sore and stiff from sitting too long.

  “Daddy, is this the one?” Lennon asked in an excited voice.

  “Yes,” Kurt smiled. “Better put your men in the backpack.”

  He thought about the offer Muffin had made the day before yesterday, when he went to see her at the courthouse.

  ‘You’re looking better,’ she said, watching him hobble into the office.

  ‘This ol’ body’s got more stitches than a baseball,’ he laughed.

  She opened the desk drawer. ‘There’s something I forgot to give you the other day when we were exchanging gifts,’ she said. ‘Libbie was supposed to type this up and get it over to Smerlas and the county commissioners, but you know her. I think the poor girl was having a protein attack that day. She sent the wrong one over.’

  He looked at the resignation letter, his crabbed handwriting.

  ‘The one she sent was the one where you ask for a three-month leave, personal time,’ she said. ‘I told Smerlas three months, six months, it doesn’t matter to us. We’ll hold off on all the office birthday parties till you feel like coming back.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I don’t think so, Muffin,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You’ve got no choice. Nobody here can figure out your filing system.’

  She was a good friend. He hoped the commissioners would give her a chance to prove herself in the sheriff’s job.

  ‘Kurt, you don’t have to say yes or no right now. Take some time off. I checked your sheets and you’ve got about six years of overtime coming to you. Just don’t drop out on us, okay? We need you at the wheel. Nobody else is ready yet.’

  Disembarking passengers streamed through the gate. When he saw his mother in the crowd, Lennon dashed toward her, his backpack rattling as he weaved around the taller bodies in his way.

  “Mommy!” he called out. “Are you all right? Hey, Mommy, it’s me! Lennon Muller!”

  Meg looked trim in her colorful cotton dress, an exotic import from India or some such place. Her auburn hair was shorter than Kurt’s, ascetic in its severity. Tiny plastic clusters of fruit dangled from each ear.

  “Mommy, you look beautiful,” Lennon shouted. “Are you well enough to come home?”

  She dropped to her knees and smothered him in her arms, kissing his cheeks. “Hello, sweetie,” she said with tears in her eyes.

  Kurt limped over and rested his hand on Lennon’s hair. “Good to see you, Peaches,” he said.

  Watching them hold each other, Kurt realized how cheated these two had been. They could never get back those years apart.

  Meg stood up. There was an awkward moment between them, then she leaned forward and gave him the expected hug. “Hello, Kurt,” she said. “How’s the leg?”

  “Getting there,” he said.

  She pulled back and gazed at his face. “My goodness,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a beard. You look a little…naked.”

  He blushed.

  “Does your mother know I’m coming too?”

  He nodded. “There’s plenty of room,” he said. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

  He had forgotten that light trace of freckles across her nose. The same pattern on Lennon.

  “Thanks for doing this, Meg. I need a little time with her alone.”

  He had made up his mind to tell his mother about Bert before someone else did.

  “We’ll find plenty to do together, won’t we, kiddo?” Meg said, wrapping her arms around Lennon, smiling down at him. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  Lennon reached over and tugged at his father’s pants. “Hey, you guys,” he said. “Hey, let’s all have a squishy hug.”

  The two grown-ups looked at each other. “A squishy hug?” Kurt said.

  “Yeah, you know,” Lennon said. “Like on television.”

  Meg dropped her eyes and smiled reluctantly. She didn’t own a television and couldn’t be blamed for this.

  “You guys have to come down here,” Lennon said, “and I’ll show you.”

  Kurt knelt down, then Meg. They pressed Lennon’s slender body between them and embraced. Kurt tried to remember the good days before the fighting and long silences and the final sad departure.

  “Kowabunga!” Lennon said. “I can’t breathe in here.”

  Meg laughed and kissed her son. “Let’s give Daddy a hand,” she said, seeing Kurt’s difficulty with the leg.

  Lennon seized his father’s chest and grunted, struggling to lift him from his knees. Meg took Kurt’s arm. With a little effort he was up and walking. They merged with the airport crowds herding toward the exits, Lennon between them, holding their h
ands. Up ahead an arrow pointed to Baggage Claim.

  “Kurt,” Meg said, glancing over their son’s head. “I couldn’t tell you about Bert. I just couldn’t.”

  “It’s okay, Peaches. Really.”

  Two nights ago they had talked about everything over the phone, a long, tearful conversation.

  “It’s all out now, I hope,” she said. “No more secrets.”

  “And nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

  She looked wonderful today, walking with her son.

  “I’m going to move back to Aspen,” she said.

  He smiled at her. Lennon’s hand was warm and moist, a small beautiful part of them.

  “Let me know how I can help,” Kurt said.

  About the Author

  Thomas Zigal

  Thomas Zigal is the author of the critically acclaimed Kurt Muller mystery series set in Aspen, Colorado, and the thriller The White League, set in New Orleans. He is a graduate of the Stanford Writing Program and has published short stories and book reviews in literary magazines and fiction anthologies for the past thirty years. He grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast and in Louisiana and now lives in Austin, Texas.