Desert Run (13 page)

“Dusty? He used to, but he lost his job.”

“A drinking problem, I think you told me. Too bad. People grab all kinds of lifelines when they're in trouble, but sometimes those lifelines are worse than the original problem.”

“Yeah, I know.” But why did he?

We drove on through the night for a little while, until, at my direction, he made a left onto Cave Creek Road. “Hey, aren't we passing through Carefree right now?”

“Yeah. But the Horny Toad's in Cave Creek. Keep on going straight and we'll be there in five minutes.”

“Carefree's where Mark said his father lives. Why don't we…?”

“Got ya.” I hauled my cell phone out of my carry-all and dialed information. Gilbert Schank had an unlisted phone number, but that meant nothing. I next dialed Jimmy's trailer, where his computer set-up mirrored the one at Desert Investigations. Within minutes he gave me Schank's phone number and address. I thanked him and hung up.

Warren looked impressed. “Wasn't that illegal?”

“Sure was. You going to turn me in?”

“Not while you're still under contract to Living History Productions.”

With both of us laughing, he turned the Golden Hawk north off Cave Creek Road into the foothills of Carefree, and after getting briefly lost amid the unlighted, snaky dirt roads, we found ourselves driving up to a sprawling, Territorial-styled house that had more to do with an architect's fantasies than it did with Arizona history. The “adobe” wasn't real adobe, either, just plain old stucco with attitude. For this, the Schank family had torn down the real thing. As they say, there's no accounting for taste.

When we exited the Golden Hawk, a roadrunner hightailed it past us. Warren let out a laugh. “What the hell was that?”

“A roadrunner. Don't you watch cartoons?”

He grinned. “Gotcha. If there's a roadrunner, there must be a coyote.”

I laughed. “There's probably a hundred coyotes nearby, but unless they have rabies, they won't bother us.”

“Thanks for that little reassurance.”

Gilbert Schank's housekeeper, a young Navajo woman, answered the door and told us that he wasn't receiving visitors. “Mr. Schank is unwell.”

Before I could say anything, Warren thrust his business card into her hand. “That's unfortunate. I'm Warren Quinn, of Living History Productions. Maybe you know my work? I received an Oscar for
Native Peoples, Foreign Chains.”

The young woman's eyes lit up. “I saw that documentary, my entire family did! It played the movie house in Window Rock for a whole month. You're really that guy? The one who interviewed Leonard Peltier in prison and told the world he'd been railroaded?”

“That's me. And you are Ms…”

“Evelyn. Evelyn Tsosie. Leonard and the rest of the warriors in the American Indian Movement are my heroes.”

Warren's smile gleamed in the light spilling from the doorway. “A great cause. Listen, Ms. Tsosie, I'm working on another historical documentary right now and I think Mr. Schank can help me with it. I promise that if talking to us appears to bother him, we'll leave.”

Tsosie looked doubtful, but she was also obviously tempted to help the man who had brought her people's grievances to the big screen. “Wait here.” She closed the door softly and was gone for almost five minutes, which is longer than it sounds when you're standing on a doorstep in the dark, until she returned with a smile. “I told him who you are and what your film did for my people. He says to come on in.”

Gilbert Schank was no fool. When you lived way out here in God's country, keeping your housekeeper happy was of prime importance.

She ushered us through the foyer and into the living room, which was the size of some barns and decorated in much the same way. Brightly colored stable blankets were tossed over two deep leather sofas, and various farm and ranch implements—possibly from the old Schank spread—were scattered throughout the room. In the corner stood a hoe that had been made into a floor lamp, while separating the two sofas was a battered plowshare underneath a panel of smoked glass that served as a cocktail table. The only reminder that Schank had founded one of the country's largest collectible car businesses was the large Leroy Neiman painting on the back wall depicting a gleaming black Cord.

Warren shrugged off the Cord as if it were a third-hand Chevy Nova. “Impressive, but it's no Golden Hawk.”

A deep chuckle drew our attention behind us. “I just got off the phone with Mark…and he told me he was trying to…sell you that '56.”

I turned to see Gilbert Schank sitting in a motorized wheelchair, a tube running from an oxygen tank to his nostrils. He no longer resembled the wiry little man who, in his old television commercials, sat astride a large palomino while he extolled the offerings of his vast autoplex. Now his nose was the biggest thing about him. His chest was sunken and his slacks hung loosely over toothpick legs. But although his body appeared as wizened as Chess Bollinger's, his eyes sparkled with total awareness.

“The Hawk's one sweet-running car, even if it is a bit overpriced,” Warren said, without missing a beat.

“A steal at…twice the price!” Schank murmured something to Tsosie, and after she gave his oxygen tank a final check, she walked away. Motioning his head toward her as she left the room, Schank said, with halting breath, “Don't get any ideas that…I'm taking unfair advantage of the…indigenous population. I put Evelyn's mother through college…now I'm doing the same for her.”

“I didn't say…”

Schank's chuckle trailed off into a wheeze as he waved us toward a sofa. “Now, now, Mr. Quinn. I saw…
Native Peoples, Foreign Chains
, and I'd be…a fool not to know where you're coming from. So before…my oxygen tank here runs out…what can I do for you?”

Warren and I settled ourselves on the sofa, and I let him take the lead. “I'd like you to tell your story on film, about watching those two Germans surrender to your mother. You wouldn't have to come out to the set at Papago Park. We'd bring the equipment to you and it wouldn't take more than an hour.”

In the silence that followed, I could hear the hiss of the oxygen bottle and the rustle of plastic. Adult diapers? Before Schank spoke, I knew what his answer would be. “I'm past…caring about all that,” the old man said. “They're all dead, anyway…so what does it matter?”

Warren wasn't about to give up without a fight. “You're wrong there. Frank Oberle, one of the camp guards, is still alive and he's in the documentary. And of course, I'm sure you've read that Erik Ernst filmed a couple of scenes before he was…”

Schank cut in with a wry smile. “Before he…was murdered. We get the newspapers…up here.” He thought for a moment. “Sorry. The answer is…no. I can't offer anything…that would help your film. And I don't want…people to see me like this. Let them remember me…on my palomino.”

Warren took his refusal with grace. “I understand, sir. But if you change your mind, will you give me a call?” He handed Schank a different card than the one than he'd given to Tsosie. “That's my private cell phone number. You can reach me at any time.”

He rose to leave but I held him back. As long as we were here, I had a few questions of my own. “Mr. Schank, since you grew up in Scottsdale, do you remember anything about the Bollinger murders? An entire family…”

Schank's crevassed face twitched. “I remember. They were…slaughtered. Horrible.”

“Scottsdale was smaller in those days than Carefree is now and most people knew each other. Did you know any of the victims personally?”

He shook his head. “No. Everybody was all…spread out. There wasn't any…Scottsdale as such. But my dad knew…Edward…the father. Now, there…was a son of a bitch.”

For a moment I didn't know what to say. Gilbert Schank had skipped Dear Abby's advice to never speak ill of the dead. “Um, why do you say that, Mr. Scha…?”

“Gilbert, for God's sake. Pretty woman…like you shouldn't sound…so formal.”

“Okay, Gilbert. Why do you call Edward Bollinger a son of a bitch?”

His chuckle this time was long and dark, but it took away so much of his breath that in the end, he could only gasp, “Dad said…mean.” Then he closed his eyes and took a few deep hits of oxygen.

“He beat his kids, is that what you're talking about?”

“That, too.” A few more hits. “But I…meant
mean
…in the other…sense. Dad told me he…was stingy. Counted every…penny. Wasn't poor but sent his kids…to school in rags.” He fiddled with his tank and the hissing sound increased.

I knew our time with him was running out, so I cut to the chase. “Mr. Sch…uh, Gilbert, who do you think killed the Bollinger family?”

The look he gave me was steady but his voice was not. “Like I said, I was…just a kid. But I always suspected…it was Thomas.” He began to cough.

I waited until he caught his breath, then asked, “Thomas who?”

As he was about to answer, Tsosie came hurrying into the room. “I heard him cough.” She knelt down beside him, eased a little more air into the line, then smoothed his perspiring forehead. He looked at her in gratitude when she said, “You'd better go.”

Warren stood up to leave but, fearing this might be my last chance to pump the old man for information, I remained sitting.

“Thomas who, Gilbert?”

Somehow the old man summoned the strength to answer. “Guy who…found…them. Thomas. Edward's…kid brother.”

The papers had said that the bodies were found by a family member, but had not named the specific person. When at last I found my voice, I sounded almost as breathless as Gilbert. “Edward's kid brother? But…okay. If Thomas Bollinger didn't get along with his brother, I can see it, maybe. Old grudges ending in a fight, something like that. But why would Thomas kill the whole family?”

“Usual…reason. Money. Edward…had money. Hated Chess and…disinherited him. With rest of…family…dead…Thomas…got it…all.”

***

The last glimmer of light had faded as, with radio blasting, Warren and I headed west along Cave Creek Road toward the Horny Toad. My stomach grumbled, but I was too excited to pay it too much attention. Could Thomas Bollinger possibly still be alive and in decent enough health to do what had been done to Kapitan Ernst? Also, I wondered why MaryEllen hadn't mentioned her uncle. Possibly I could find out tomorrow when I had lunch with Fay Harris. She might have written something about Thomas that didn't make it into her book due to fears of a lawsuit. In the meantime, I turned the car radio down, fished my cell phone out of my carry-all, and punched in Jimmy's number again.

When he answered, he sounded annoyed. “Lena, I have company.”

“Who's there? Esther?”

“Yes, Esther and Rebecca. I'm fixing barbeque. The picnic table's all set up and everything.”

I could see them now, Jimmy's soon-to-be-family, sitting under the reservation sky, listening to night birds and coyotes. He'd better enjoy that wild ambience now, because when Esther was finished with him, he would be char-broiling burgers for fussy suburbanites. For now, though, he was still my partner. “I don't need this tonight, Jimmy, but I'd appreciate it if first thing in the morning you'd look up Thomas Bollinger, Edward Bollinger's younger brother, and find out whatever you can. I want to know what happened to him after the murders, what kind of money he came into, and most importantly, if he's still alive.” A vision of Chess Bollinger flashed into my mind. “And, uh, if he still has all his faculties.”

“Tomorrow. Fine.” The tension was gone from his voice. “See you then.” Without waiting for me to say good-by, he hung up.

Warren gave me a sideways glace. “You're efficient.”

I stuffed the phone back into my carry-all. “You have to be in my business.”

“Mine, too.” He turned the radio back up in the middle of the Del Vikings' “Come Go With Me,” one of my Golden Oldies favorites.

I settled back against the Golden Hawk's seat, trying to put Tesema's woes and Jimmy's defection out of my mind. The night was peaceful and I was with the man I loved. What more could I want?

Then an announcer interrupted the Del Viking's harmonies.

“Breaking news from the KGLD newsroom. Popular Scottsdale journalist Fay Harris was found shot to death this evening in her apartment building parking lot. Harris, who has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for her coverage of illegal immigrant deaths in the desert, was also the author of
Escape Across the Desert
, now being filmed by Oscar-winning director Warren Quinn. Harris' neighbors say they heard shots…”

Suddenly the night didn't seem so peaceful.

Chapter Thirteen

December 26, 1944

Gunter Hoenig hadn't slept all night. Wrapped in a blanket they had stolen from the farmhouse, he lay huddled against Josef in an arroyo several miles east, fighting the nightmare images that visited every time he closed his eyes. The man by the barn, the woman and children in the farmhouse! Even now the dying woman pleaded with him to help her. Oh, if he only had moved faster and stayed the tire iron before Das Kapitan brought it down on her. But, no, he had remained standing for that one fatal second, unwilling to believe what was about to happen.

He shut his eyes more tightly and turned his face into Josef's warm back, but more memories rushed in. The wounded American sailors gunned down as they swam away from their burning ship, the boatload of peaceful Jews Kapitan had so gleefully torpedoed.

As if roused by Gunter's thoughts, Kapitan stumbled up from his rocky bed on the other side of Josef and moved further down the arroyo. Soon he disappeared into a thicket of weeds, but his nearby presence was heralded by the faint grunts of a man answering Nature's call.

Taking this opportunity—the first since they left the farmhouse—Gunter shook Josef. “Wake up! We must leave this place!” he whispered. He placed his hand across Josef's mouth so that his friend could not cry out.

Josef awoke. After nodding understanding, he pushed Gunter's hand away. “Are the Americans near?”

Gunter shook his head. “We must go back to Camp Papago and tell the authorities what we have seen. Those people in the farmhouse…”

Tears sprang to Josef's eyes and his voice trembled. “Such a tragedy. The children…” He swallowed, swept his tangles of auburn hair out of his face, and began again. “Kapitan was so grieved to find those poor people dead. While you were bundling food into the blankets, we prayed together for their souls. Oh, how his heart broke! But for us to return to Camp Papago now, what good would that do? God has already gathered those poor people to his bosom and our surrender will not change that. We must remain faithful to Kapitan's plan.”

Kaptian prayed for their souls?
Ach
, such hypocrisy! Why had Josef…? Too late Gunter remembered that Josef had been in the other room gathering blankets and not seen Kapitan kill the woman. Three years younger than himself and reassigned to U-237 a mere month before capture, Josef had been spared the killing of the American sailors, the Jews, and the worst of Ernst's violence toward his own crew. In Josef's eyes, Kapitan was the flower of the Fatherland, the savior who would lead them to Mexico.

Gunter forgave his friend's naivete. Josef was only eighteen, too young to be a submariner, too young to be a father to the baby now growing in his even younger wife's belly. Too young to know the world. And too young to be left to the nonexistent mercies of Das Kapitan.

With great sadness, Gunter whispered, “If you will not go with me, Josef, then I will stay with you.”

He lay back down beside his friend, hoping that he had made the right decision.