FINDERS KEEPERS
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Driving south on the desolate SR 286 was always an invitation to daydream. Arid, gently rolling high desert grassland. Mesquite, Palo Verde, and Ironwood trees. Beautiful Sonoran desert rock formations.
Fantasy might be the better image for Ross, as he too often mused on what life could have been. Better marriages, a living wage, respectability. The black mass ahead woke him out of the trance. As he neared, he could see it was an injured javelina. Fresh skid marks curved off the road. Perhaps the car and animal both moved in the same direction. Horribly maimed, he would not allow the animal to suffer, and pulled the 308 Winchester from the truck’s rear window mount.
He dragged the body from the road and as he swung it into the shallow canyon; he saw the car turned upside down on the desert floor; itself looking like a dead animal with wheels like legs extended upward. The driver’s head was partially protruding through the windshield, while an ineffective airbag filled space around the body. As he walked around to the passenger side, the door was open and another airbag deployed. The shattered side window smeared with blood. Ross saw footprints and the markings of something being dragged away. He followed the trail.
A city man in a white dress shirt had his back against a tree. As Ross neared, he could see he was holding a cell phone. The right side of his head oozed blood from several deep gashes. As he knelt before him, the phone rang. The man could only stare at Ross while breathing erratically. “Can you answer the phone, or do you want me to answer?” Again, no response, as his pallor became more deathly bluish. Ross paused as the phone continued to ring, considering what would be the right action. He took the phone and answered with a hello. There was silence, and then a male voice said hello. Ross repeated his hello. This time, the caller started speaking. “This is not who I expected. What is your name?” Ross paused, feeling suddenly squeamish, considered hanging up, but responded “What is your name?” There was a laugh, and then “Let’s try something different. Where are my friends?”
Ross started with the injured Javelina, the discovery of the wrecked vehicle, and the driver assuredly dead. He then described following a path to an injured man with a white dress shirt. “I can say with almost certainty, he is now dead.” The caller interrupted, “You sound like a young man, so that is what I will call you. Thank you so very much for trying to aid my good friends. Perhaps there is a large tan duffel bag nearby, is that so?” Ross was so preoccupied with the injured man and this conversation, he had not looked around, but immediately saw such a bag propped behind the man and pressed against the tree. “Oh yes, here it is.”
The caller continued, “What I’m about to say is of the utmost importance. Please listen carefully. You may have already opened the bag, and that does not concern me. What is critical to both of us is what you do at this moment. The contents of that bag are mine. It does not belong to those two men, and it assuredly does not belong to you. My cellphone locater tells me you are on SB286 near Sasabe, perhaps you live there, a few people do.” Ross hit the red disconnect button in panic without hearing another word and dropped the phone. He pulled the man away from the tree and unzipped the canvas bag. The cellphone rang again.
His first thought was the movie “No Country for Old Men.” The hapless cowboy stumbles upon dead men and a suitcase full of money. He saw the movie at least three times because it was so tense and spooky good. He also remembered that everyone died but the bad guy. The packs held one hundred dollar bills, and each wrapping had $10,000 printed on a paper band. He tried to count the number of packs, but the ringing phone was too distracting. Was this his undoing as he answered?
“Thank you, young man. I appreciate dealing with someone who will listen. You are about to earn $20,000 today for being honest and doing the right thing.” Ross interrupted the caller. “If you want my attention, let’s start with $40,000.” There was a pause, and the caller continued with a sound of irritation. “We seem to keep getting off on the wrong foot. Please hear me out, and perhaps $40,000 could be reasonable.” “I knew that would be your answer. I’m not dumb,” Ross shouted. “I end up dead just like these two hapless souls. I’m not touching a cent. You seem to know where it is, come get it.” For no reason that he could explain to Maria, he propped the dead man back up against the tree, placed the open bag on his lap, and folded the hands on top. As he stood, his eye caught the phone in the dirt. With the power turned off, he stuffed it in a back pocket of his jeans.
The truck tires spun in the dirt before finding traction as he headed home. What else might the caller know? He guessed correctly about their living in Sasabe. Maria worked in the general store, which also had the only fuel pumps in the small border crossing town. There was a post office building, a weekend bar, and a few scattered houses. The population on the Arizona side was 54. Maria was born and raised on the larger Mexican side of town. Ross was a gardener and maintenance worker at Rancho de La Osa on the way to Tucson. The brochure calls the 590 acres a sports person’s paradise, and Arizona’s most historic ranch. For Ross, it was a paycheck every two weeks and exceptional leftover food that employees could take home when available.
There is not much time to think when you are driving sixty, and home is five miles away. At first, he congratulated himself on his decision. Bank robbery, drug money, or something else illicit, for sure. Yes, walk away, take no risk, life goes on as normal. Or, and the thought hit him between the eyes. You take it all, accept the risk, and life changes from a normal that has been nothing but a dead-end. He whipped the truck around.
The change of plan had wasted time, and now speed was of the essence. Any careless mistake could put his life in jeopardy. Ross pulled up across from the accident, knowing his next stop was still further north. He would bury the bag on Rancho de La Osa property. As he ran across the highway, the movie again played in his mind. A locator device hidden in the money case was the cowboy’s downfall. Perhaps that’s how the caller knew where he was, and not a cellphone. He went back to the truck and frantically looked for some type of bag. A small thick plastic barrel held tools used at the ranch. Dumping the contents upside down, some fell back in the truck, while others fell by the side. He raced to the tree, opened the bag, and spread the contents on the dirt. Take your time, he admonished himself, as he examined each $10,000 pack to see there was nothing but bills. Two times he had to stop the check, stand and stomp down in the barrel to make room. The final ten packets had to be put down his shirt front, leaving him looking like Santa Claus as he clamored back up the embankment.
The gate guard waved him through, calling out, “You must love it here!” Ross drove out on one of the least used maintenance roads looking for a memorable burial site. A cluster of three Yucca trees, a hundred yards off the road, served his purpose. He found a wool blanket in the truck bed used for hunting and neatly stacked the 120 packets in a cube shape. Once buried, he set rocks above the chamber for further identification.
A pain struck his stomach as he neared the spot on the highway. A black vehicle sat off the road on the right, and someone was kneeling on the other side where he had recently parked. He put his elbow out on the window ledge to look as nonchalant as possible and turned up the radio. Looking straight forward as he passed, he then used the side and rear-view mirrors to capture the scene. A man was examining tools he failed to retrieve from having dumped out the bucket in haste. The car was a Lexus sedan, and the last glimpse was another person coming back on the road from the area of the wreck.
Ross parked the truck in his garage and went inside. Sitting on the back porch with a cold beer and notepad, he started on his list: Do not go back to the stash
for six months. Say nothing to Maria. Monitor The Arizona Daily Star for any link to the money or accident.
He had other ideas he wanted to add, but found the last three hours had left him anxious and tired. Rather than fall asleep as he lay on the couch, his mind only spun faster with thoughts of blood, death, and threats. He would take the short walk to the general store and say hi to Maria. Nearing the highway, he panicked, seeing the black Lexus at the gas pump and Maria standing by the car talking to the occupants. He spun around and challenged himself to walk and not run.
An hour later, Maria entered the small home to find Ross facing her, shaking, and ghostly white in the face. “Those men in the black car, you were talking to them at the gas pump. What did they want?” She looked at him with puzzlement. “How would you know that? What’s wrong with you?” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the couch as he spoke. “We could be in big trouble. Tell me exactly what they said.” “Those were your tools! They just want to thank you with $1,000 for trying to help at the accident.” Ross moved to a chair and leaned forward toward Maria, with his elbows resting on his knees. “They are killers, and I took their money. We will be dead by the end of the day unless we leave now. Pack a small bag and we will walk the back way through the canyon to your parents’ home. You cannot go back to the store or set foot in Arizona until this blows over.
The rifle hung over the back shoulder, with a loaded ammunition belt secured around his waist. Maria held her bag in one hand and cradled the cat with the other. His father-in-law raised a small herd of cattle on the family ranch. As Ross told his story from the beginning, Julio pushed his chair away from the table and returned with two loaded rifles used for protection against predators. “The dogs will give us warning if any two-legged vermin come on the property.”
Maria had told the men the tools looked like her husband’s, but surely not as he would never leave them unattended. Believing their story of a helpful bystander, she spoke of Rancho de La Osa, and perhaps another worker had been the person worthy of their reward. Ross comforted his wife, saying he brought this trouble on their family with his misguided belief that money would bring greater happiness. He vowed to make this right and needed to go back home when dark to retrieve his handgun on a shelf under their bed.
Shortly before midnight, Ross reentered the canyon and worked his way toward their house. As he neared, it seemed someone had turned on every light. Crawling on his stomach, he came to a position that gave him an unobstructed view into the living room. They had turned furniture upside down, and two men were moving in and out of other rooms. One came to the bedroom sliding door, pulled it open, and stood on the small slab patio looking out into the dark canyon. Ross quietly pulled the dead man’s cellphone from his back pocket, turned it on and hit redial. The ringing broke the stillness of the night. The man on the patio reached inside his coat to answer as Ross shut the phone off.
In the front yard, Julio rested on a lounge chair with the rifles by his side. The border collies let him know his son-in-law was returning. “They’re at the house as I speak, and ten to one, I have a voicemail on this phone.” He turned it back on, and the red light glowed in the dark. A now familiar voice spoke. “Hello Ross, nice to know who I’m dealing with. You may call me El Jefe if you choose. Your young wife was quite helpful, please pass on my gratefulness. We seem to circle closer, you and I. This has not been my best day, and you have certainly tested my patience. Here is the god’s honest truth. You have lost your reward, and you, sweet Maria, and anyone close to you will soon be as dead as my friends unless I have my money by noon. You’re a gardener for christ’s sake, and I kill people who stand in my way. Call me back.”
Julio asked Ross to replay the voicemail. “Son, show me your hands.” The crusty old man took the calloused and rough skinned hands into his massive weather beaten hands and massaged the fingers. “You are a fine gardener. You preserve our beautiful and natural environment. I am a simple but honest man who raises cattle to put meat on the table for many. Who is this gringo who would threaten our family over his ill-gotten gains?” They spoke for an hour, and Ross made several phone calls.
The eastern sky was awakening in a golden hue. The black Lexus pulled up behind a cattle truck on the highway across from the accident. The driver, with a raised firearm, cautiously crossed the road, looked down on the wrecked vehicle, surveyed the canyon, and signaled his boss. The two men made their way down the embankment and walked toward the tree, still bracing their fallen comrade. The jefe, using a compass on his phone, found due west and paced 100 steps in that direction. As promised, they found an area with freshly tilled soil, topped with a cluster of three medium-sized rocks set in a pyramid. At that moment, a truck engine started, and the sound of the vehicle moving north gave the pair an expected confirmation. What pricked their ears was the truck motor quickly shutting down, as if it was just moved forward on the roadside. A moment later, a horrific explosion sent a brilliant fireball into the sky.
The driver took took a longer route back to the highway, finding himself well north of the truck. Twenty yards behind the truck were the smoldering remains of the Lexus. Slowly walking down the opposite side of the highway, he sought any movement from the area of the truck. Julio set the PAX-22 Tranquilizer Rifle scope on his approaching target. The sound is like that of an air rifle. The dart struck the neck, injecting a non-lethal sedative. There was no cry. The man simply dropped to his knees and within two seconds fell to his side, incapacitated. Ten minutes later, Ross called El Jefe. “This is the gardener speaking. I don’t know if you’ve started digging, and that does not concern me, but here is the god’s honest truth, the money is somewhere else. Also, as you heard, your car is no longer useful for driving, and your friend is temporarily out of service.” Ross looked over at Julio. “He hung up on me.”
Maria had insisted she make sandwiches and hot coffee, which the two now enjoyed while sitting in the truck's bed. The FBI and HPD arrived within minutes of each other. Knowing a prime suspect was armed and unaccountable, the Highway Patrol posted two men as lookouts as they examined the dead men and took the driver into custody. FBI was ecstatic to have the cell phone with voice messages of threats and claims to money. The head agent spoke. “Courts will now allow voice identification evidence as admissible to corroborate defendant identification.” It took several more hours of investigative work before the FBI was ready to pick up the money in question. The HP officers walked over to the truck and said they are holding a person of interest. A well dress man was spotted walking out of the canyon close to Sasabe. His story made no sense.
Ross and Julio sat in the back seat as the two agents drove them to the guest ranch. The front seat passenger turned to Ross and spoke. “Often in cases like this, perpetrators will deny any connection to a suspicious cash hoard. After three months, if there is no legitimate claim to the funds, it becomes the property of the one who made the discovery.” Julio looked over at Ross with a smile. “Remember, you are a fine gardener, and your beautiful wife makes a great sandwich.” Ross grinned and nodded his head.
As the foursome walked across the desert floor, Ross pointed toward the three yucca trees in the distance. As they neared, something or things were swarming on the ground like large black ants. “Oh, no” shouted Ross as he sprinted forward. A dozen javelinas scattered in all directions. Julio, with hands resting on his hips, looking down in the pit, could only laugh. “Son, a javelina would smell that buried hunting blanket like dinner ready to be served.” Perhaps $1,000 might survive intact, as the animals had gnawed on every packet. The officer in charge did, in fact, find eight bills undamaged. He handed them to Ross. “Between you and me, friend. Appreciate your help.” Ross whispered to Julio “Maria gets her new refrigerator.”
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Driving south on the desolate SR 286 was always an invitation to daydream. Arid, gently rolling high desert grassland. Mesquite, Palo Verde, and Ironwood trees. Beautiful Sonoran desert rock formations.
Fantasy might be the better image for Ross, as he too often mused on what life could have been. Better marriages, a living wage, respectability. The black mass ahead woke him out of the trance. As he neared, he could see it was an injured javelina. Fresh skid marks curved off the road. Perhaps the car and animal both moved in the same direction. Horribly maimed, he would not allow the animal to suffer, and pulled the 308 Winchester from the truck’s rear window mount.
He dragged the body from the road and as he swung it into the shallow canyon; he saw the car turned upside down on the desert floor; itself looking like a dead animal with wheels like legs extended upward. The driver’s head was partially protruding through the windshield, while an ineffective airbag filled space around the body. As he walked around to the passenger side, the door was open and another airbag deployed. The shattered side window smeared with blood. Ross saw footprints and the markings of something being dragged away. He followed the trail.
A city man in a white dress shirt had his back against a tree. As Ross neared, he could see he was holding a cell phone. The right side of his head oozed blood from several deep gashes. As he knelt before him, the phone rang. The man could only stare at Ross while breathing erratically. “Can you answer the phone, or do you want me to answer?” Again, no response, as his pallor became more deathly bluish. Ross paused as the phone continued to ring, considering what would be the right action. He took the phone and answered with a hello. There was silence, and then a male voice said hello. Ross repeated his hello. This time, the caller started speaking. “This is not who I expected. What is your name?” Ross paused, feeling suddenly squeamish, considered hanging up, but responded “What is your name?” There was a laugh, and then “Let’s try something different. Where are my friends?”
Ross started with the injured Javelina, the discovery of the wrecked vehicle, and the driver assuredly dead. He then described following a path to an injured man with a white dress shirt. “I can say with almost certainty, he is now dead.” The caller interrupted, “You sound like a young man, so that is what I will call you. Thank you so very much for trying to aid my good friends. Perhaps there is a large tan duffel bag nearby, is that so?” Ross was so preoccupied with the injured man and this conversation, he had not looked around, but immediately saw such a bag propped behind the man and pressed against the tree. “Oh yes, here it is.”
The caller continued, “What I’m about to say is of the utmost importance. Please listen carefully. You may have already opened the bag, and that does not concern me. What is critical to both of us is what you do at this moment. The contents of that bag are mine. It does not belong to those two men, and it assuredly does not belong to you. My cellphone locater tells me you are on SB286 near Sasabe, perhaps you live there, a few people do.” Ross hit the red disconnect button in panic without hearing another word and dropped the phone. He pulled the man away from the tree and unzipped the canvas bag. The cellphone rang again.
His first thought was the movie “No Country for Old Men.” The hapless cowboy stumbles upon dead men and a suitcase full of money. He saw the movie at least three times because it was so tense and spooky good. He also remembered that everyone died but the bad guy. The packs held one hundred dollar bills, and each wrapping had $10,000 printed on a paper band. He tried to count the number of packs, but the ringing phone was too distracting. Was this his undoing as he answered?
“Thank you, young man. I appreciate dealing with someone who will listen. You are about to earn $20,000 today for being honest and doing the right thing.” Ross interrupted the caller. “If you want my attention, let’s start with $40,000.” There was a pause, and the caller continued with a sound of irritation. “We seem to keep getting off on the wrong foot. Please hear me out, and perhaps $40,000 could be reasonable.” “I knew that would be your answer. I’m not dumb,” Ross shouted. “I end up dead just like these two hapless souls. I’m not touching a cent. You seem to know where it is, come get it.” For no reason that he could explain to Maria, he propped the dead man back up against the tree, placed the open bag on his lap, and folded the hands on top. As he stood, his eye caught the phone in the dirt. With the power turned off, he stuffed it in a back pocket of his jeans.
The truck tires spun in the dirt before finding traction as he headed home. What else might the caller know? He guessed correctly about their living in Sasabe. Maria worked in the general store, which also had the only fuel pumps in the small border crossing town. There was a post office building, a weekend bar, and a few scattered houses. The population on the Arizona side was 54. Maria was born and raised on the larger Mexican side of town. Ross was a gardener and maintenance worker at Rancho de La Osa on the way to Tucson. The brochure calls the 590 acres a sports person’s paradise, and Arizona’s most historic ranch. For Ross, it was a paycheck every two weeks and exceptional leftover food that employees could take home when available.
There is not much time to think when you are driving sixty, and home is five miles away. At first, he congratulated himself on his decision. Bank robbery, drug money, or something else illicit, for sure. Yes, walk away, take no risk, life goes on as normal. Or, and the thought hit him between the eyes. You take it all, accept the risk, and life changes from a normal that has been nothing but a dead-end. He whipped the truck around.
The change of plan had wasted time, and now speed was of the essence. Any careless mistake could put his life in jeopardy. Ross pulled up across from the accident, knowing his next stop was still further north. He would bury the bag on Rancho de La Osa property. As he ran across the highway, the movie again played in his mind. A locator device hidden in the money case was the cowboy’s downfall. Perhaps that’s how the caller knew where he was, and not a cellphone. He went back to the truck and frantically looked for some type of bag. A small thick plastic barrel held tools used at the ranch. Dumping the contents upside down, some fell back in the truck, while others fell by the side. He raced to the tree, opened the bag, and spread the contents on the dirt. Take your time, he admonished himself, as he examined each $10,000 pack to see there was nothing but bills. Two times he had to stop the check, stand and stomp down in the barrel to make room. The final ten packets had to be put down his shirt front, leaving him looking like Santa Claus as he clamored back up the embankment.
The gate guard waved him through, calling out, “You must love it here!” Ross drove out on one of the least used maintenance roads looking for a memorable burial site. A cluster of three Yucca trees, a hundred yards off the road, served his purpose. He found a wool blanket in the truck bed used for hunting and neatly stacked the 120 packets in a cube shape. Once buried, he set rocks above the chamber for further identification.
A pain struck his stomach as he neared the spot on the highway. A black vehicle sat off the road on the right, and someone was kneeling on the other side where he had recently parked. He put his elbow out on the window ledge to look as nonchalant as possible and turned up the radio. Looking straight forward as he passed, he then used the side and rear-view mirrors to capture the scene. A man was examining tools he failed to retrieve from having dumped out the bucket in haste. The car was a Lexus sedan, and the last glimpse was another person coming back on the road from the area of the wreck.
Ross parked the truck in his garage and went inside. Sitting on the back porch with a cold beer and notepad, he started on his list: Do not go back to the stash
for six months. Say nothing to Maria. Monitor The Arizona Daily Star for any link to the money or accident.
He had other ideas he wanted to add, but found the last three hours had left him anxious and tired. Rather than fall asleep as he lay on the couch, his mind only spun faster with thoughts of blood, death, and threats. He would take the short walk to the general store and say hi to Maria. Nearing the highway, he panicked, seeing the black Lexus at the gas pump and Maria standing by the car talking to the occupants. He spun around and challenged himself to walk and not run.
An hour later, Maria entered the small home to find Ross facing her, shaking, and ghostly white in the face. “Those men in the black car, you were talking to them at the gas pump. What did they want?” She looked at him with puzzlement. “How would you know that? What’s wrong with you?” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the couch as he spoke. “We could be in big trouble. Tell me exactly what they said.” “Those were your tools! They just want to thank you with $1,000 for trying to help at the accident.” Ross moved to a chair and leaned forward toward Maria, with his elbows resting on his knees. “They are killers, and I took their money. We will be dead by the end of the day unless we leave now. Pack a small bag and we will walk the back way through the canyon to your parents’ home. You cannot go back to the store or set foot in Arizona until this blows over.
The rifle hung over the back shoulder, with a loaded ammunition belt secured around his waist. Maria held her bag in one hand and cradled the cat with the other. His father-in-law raised a small herd of cattle on the family ranch. As Ross told his story from the beginning, Julio pushed his chair away from the table and returned with two loaded rifles used for protection against predators. “The dogs will give us warning if any two-legged vermin come on the property.”
Maria had told the men the tools looked like her husband’s, but surely not as he would never leave them unattended. Believing their story of a helpful bystander, she spoke of Rancho de La Osa, and perhaps another worker had been the person worthy of their reward. Ross comforted his wife, saying he brought this trouble on their family with his misguided belief that money would bring greater happiness. He vowed to make this right and needed to go back home when dark to retrieve his handgun on a shelf under their bed.
Shortly before midnight, Ross reentered the canyon and worked his way toward their house. As he neared, it seemed someone had turned on every light. Crawling on his stomach, he came to a position that gave him an unobstructed view into the living room. They had turned furniture upside down, and two men were moving in and out of other rooms. One came to the bedroom sliding door, pulled it open, and stood on the small slab patio looking out into the dark canyon. Ross quietly pulled the dead man’s cellphone from his back pocket, turned it on and hit redial. The ringing broke the stillness of the night. The man on the patio reached inside his coat to answer as Ross shut the phone off.
In the front yard, Julio rested on a lounge chair with the rifles by his side. The border collies let him know his son-in-law was returning. “They’re at the house as I speak, and ten to one, I have a voicemail on this phone.” He turned it back on, and the red light glowed in the dark. A now familiar voice spoke. “Hello Ross, nice to know who I’m dealing with. You may call me El Jefe if you choose. Your young wife was quite helpful, please pass on my gratefulness. We seem to circle closer, you and I. This has not been my best day, and you have certainly tested my patience. Here is the god’s honest truth. You have lost your reward, and you, sweet Maria, and anyone close to you will soon be as dead as my friends unless I have my money by noon. You’re a gardener for christ’s sake, and I kill people who stand in my way. Call me back.”
Julio asked Ross to replay the voicemail. “Son, show me your hands.” The crusty old man took the calloused and rough skinned hands into his massive weather beaten hands and massaged the fingers. “You are a fine gardener. You preserve our beautiful and natural environment. I am a simple but honest man who raises cattle to put meat on the table for many. Who is this gringo who would threaten our family over his ill-gotten gains?” They spoke for an hour, and Ross made several phone calls.
The eastern sky was awakening in a golden hue. The black Lexus pulled up behind a cattle truck on the highway across from the accident. The driver, with a raised firearm, cautiously crossed the road, looked down on the wrecked vehicle, surveyed the canyon, and signaled his boss. The two men made their way down the embankment and walked toward the tree, still bracing their fallen comrade. The jefe, using a compass on his phone, found due west and paced 100 steps in that direction. As promised, they found an area with freshly tilled soil, topped with a cluster of three medium-sized rocks set in a pyramid. At that moment, a truck engine started, and the sound of the vehicle moving north gave the pair an expected confirmation. What pricked their ears was the truck motor quickly shutting down, as if it was just moved forward on the roadside. A moment later, a horrific explosion sent a brilliant fireball into the sky.
The driver took took a longer route back to the highway, finding himself well north of the truck. Twenty yards behind the truck were the smoldering remains of the Lexus. Slowly walking down the opposite side of the highway, he sought any movement from the area of the truck. Julio set the PAX-22 Tranquilizer Rifle scope on his approaching target. The sound is like that of an air rifle. The dart struck the neck, injecting a non-lethal sedative. There was no cry. The man simply dropped to his knees and within two seconds fell to his side, incapacitated. Ten minutes later, Ross called El Jefe. “This is the gardener speaking. I don’t know if you’ve started digging, and that does not concern me, but here is the god’s honest truth, the money is somewhere else. Also, as you heard, your car is no longer useful for driving, and your friend is temporarily out of service.” Ross looked over at Julio. “He hung up on me.”
Maria had insisted she make sandwiches and hot coffee, which the two now enjoyed while sitting in the truck's bed. The FBI and HPD arrived within minutes of each other. Knowing a prime suspect was armed and unaccountable, the Highway Patrol posted two men as lookouts as they examined the dead men and took the driver into custody. FBI was ecstatic to have the cell phone with voice messages of threats and claims to money. The head agent spoke. “Courts will now allow voice identification evidence as admissible to corroborate defendant identification.” It took several more hours of investigative work before the FBI was ready to pick up the money in question. The HP officers walked over to the truck and said they are holding a person of interest. A well dress man was spotted walking out of the canyon close to Sasabe. His story made no sense.
Ross and Julio sat in the back seat as the two agents drove them to the guest ranch. The front seat passenger turned to Ross and spoke. “Often in cases like this, perpetrators will deny any connection to a suspicious cash hoard. After three months, if there is no legitimate claim to the funds, it becomes the property of the one who made the discovery.” Julio looked over at Ross with a smile. “Remember, you are a fine gardener, and your beautiful wife makes a great sandwich.” Ross grinned and nodded his head.
As the foursome walked across the desert floor, Ross pointed toward the three yucca trees in the distance. As they neared, something or things were swarming on the ground like large black ants. “Oh, no” shouted Ross as he sprinted forward. A dozen javelinas scattered in all directions. Julio, with hands resting on his hips, looking down in the pit, could only laugh. “Son, a javelina would smell that buried hunting blanket like dinner ready to be served.” Perhaps $1,000 might survive intact, as the animals had gnawed on every packet. The officer in charge did, in fact, find eight bills undamaged. He handed them to Ross. “Between you and me, friend. Appreciate your help.” Ross whispered to Julio “Maria gets her new refrigerator.”
RICHARD SWAIN