Desert Run (33 page)

Just one missing German.

I believed that when Ernst had been captured raiding the farmworkers' storage shed in that dry summer of 1945, he'd left Josef Braun behind. After Ernst never returned, Josef had continued to plug up the opening with rocks and fill the spaces between them with carefully transplanted shrubs. Unless a person knew in advance that the cave was there, it remained invisible to the naked eye. Was Josef in there now, dozing in the warm afternoon? Or had he moved on to a new life decades ago?

“Josef! Josef Braun!” I shouted, after stepping away from the cave's entrance.

No answer. Either he was gone or was still barricaded in there and was now arming himself with whatever weapon he'd managed to scavenge.

“Josef, my name is Lena Jones. You're in no danger from me.” Which, if he'd killed Erik Ernst, was a lie. But the chances were good that an Old World German wouldn't see a woman as a threat.

Still no answer or sounds of movement of any kind, so I spent the next few minutes perched on the narrow trail, pulling away rocks while carefully avoiding slipping over the edge and rolling down the slope to the valley floor thirty feet below. The difficulty in removing the debris filling the cave's mouth made me realize that it must have been sealed for years. Josef was long gone. Disappointed, but determined to finish what I had started, I kept going. Just as my shoulders were about to give out, the opening revealed itself and I shone my flashlight into the darkness beyond. While the opening was little more than two feet in diameter, the cave was much larger inside. In case there was another opening into the cave and something other than an escaped POW had taken up residence, I picked up a rock and threw it in. No mountain lions snarled and no rattlesnakes threatened. Satisfied, I took my flashlight out of my pocket, stood on my tiptoes, and pushed myself inside.

Once through the mouth of the cave, I gazed around a chamber so high that a tall man could easily stand without hunching over, and three men could stand together, arms outstretched, without touching the walls. The chamber narrowed toward the back, where my flashlight beam revealed yet another chamber beyond, reachable through a low passage only slightly smaller than the one I'd used to enter this room. The passageway had once been blocked by rocks, but at some point they had tumbled down and now lay scattered on the cave's dirt and rock floor. I would explore that chamber as soon as I finished sifting the trash heaps in this one.

And trash heaps they were. Ernst—and then, probably, Josef—had been too canny to toss garbage outside the cave, which would have piqued the curiosity of local prospectors. Instead, the men had created more-or-less neat piles of refuse, which made the cave redolent with the stench of rotted food unexposed for decades to the cleansing air outside. I wrinkled my nose against the smell, then remembered my ChapStick, which was not only mint-flavored, but mint-scented. I fished it out of my pocket and rubbed it around my nostrils. To my relief, I now smelled mint, not decades.

Stench no longer permeating my nostrils, I knelt and began going through the litter on the cavern floor. Small geckos scurried out of my way and up the walls, their tails twitching in agitation. I ignored them. Within a short time I found the remnants of enough food to convince me there was more than enough to enable the Germans to survive for months, especially if their diet had been supplemented by game kills. Toward the back of the chamber, the bright beam of my flashlight revealed the bones of several small animals, probably rabbits and ground squirrels. So why had Ernst ventured out of this protected valley and into more populated territory, only to be recaptured? From what I could see, there had been no reason for it yet. Nearby, I also found several rusted kitchen implements: a couple of can openers, some pots, knives, and even a dust-covered bucket which the Germans probably used to haul water from the stream below. Back then the water had been purer than it was today, so I doubted if they suffered from the effects of contamination. Gunter made no mention of dysentery in his journals.

Ah. The water. When Ernst had been captured, it was early summer, when the stream below would have begun drying up. So it wasn't hunger that had driven him away from this perfect sanctuary. It was thirst. And that was why Josef eventually left, too.

I poked around in the cave's front chamber for a little while longer, uncovering more and more foodstuffs: dried beans, rice, even a few cans. To give the devil his due, Ernst had taken good care of his men. In one of the trash heaps, I did find a rather incongruous item: a tattered copy of
Look
magazine. Although the magazine had been ripped in half and the ink was so faded that I couldn't quite read the date, several faded photographs portrayed women's suits with big shoulder pads, and men wearing snappy fedoras. Forties styles. Which one of the trio had picked the magazine up and why? Did the men take turns reading it simply for pleasure during the day, while the light was still good? Or had they used the magazine to widen their prison-camp English vocabulary? I guessed now that I would never know. Josef Braun wasn't here, and neither were the answers to my questions.

Deeply disappointed, I dropped to my knees and scrambled my way past fallen rocks to enter the second chamber.

And that's when I found him.

Josef's skeleton lay huddled in the far corner of the cave's second chamber, only partially hidden by the rocks and empty cans Das Kapitan had covered him with. He had been murdered, of that there was no doubt. When I beamed the flashlight on the body, I could see his shattered skull, where a few deep auburn hairs still clung. One of the rocks in the cave would probably prove to be the murder weapon, but I'd leave that to the crime scene techs. Or maybe even the FBI.

No dog tags were wrapped around what was left of the neck to announce the skeleton's identity, which didn't come as a surprise, because I'd read that before escaping, the Germans disposed of the U.S.-issued tags that revealed their nationality and POW status. Even if they had escaped in their POW-stenciled uniforms, time would have erased those identifiers, too, for only rags remained of Josef's clothing. Yet even rags can tell a story. Near the skeleton's pelvis, in a tumble of fragile cloth which had once been a pocket, I saw the glimmer of metal. Carefully, so as not to disturb the decades-old crime scene more than necessary, I lifted the crumbling fabric away to reveal an Iron Cross dangling from the end of something that looked like fishing line. Sixty years ago, Gunter had made necklaces like these to sell for cigarette money. I brushed the dust away from the cross, then cleaned it with saliva and the tail end of my T-shirt. When I turned it over, I saw writing on the back. Holding the necklace with my left hand and the flashlight with my right, I squinted at the tiny letters Gunter had inscribed.

Zu meinem guten Freund Josef.

To my good friend Josef
.

I held the cross against my heart for a moment, then without planning to, reached out and gently touched Josef Braun's battered skull. “Poor boy. You never made it back to your wife, did you?”

Josef didn't answer. His empty eye sockets just stared into eternity.

But I could envision Josef's final moments.

Summer, 1945. Probably sometime in late May or early June, when the stream Ernst and Josef had been relying on dried up, rendering continued survival in the Wilderness impossible. For all his extremism, Ernst was no kamikaze. Unlike those death-embracing Japanese pilots at the end of World War II, the submarine captain wasn't ready to die for his Nazi beliefs, at least not if he could help it. So he'd made another raid, probably not for food but for water, and been caught. From all accounts, he'd surrendered peacefully enough when confronted. Maybe he believed he could escape again, this time into Mexico.

If so, history had intervened in his plans. After being hidden away in the Superstition Wilderness for almost six months, Ernst had no way of knowing what was happening in Europe, that on April 30, a defeated Hitler committed suicide and that one week later, Germany surrendered. But even if Ernst had known what was going on in Europe, the end for Josef Braun would probably have been the same. Maybe he decided that his friend Gunter had told him the truth about seeing Ernst kill Joyce Bollinger and confronted him. Or maybe Josef had become increasingly dissatisfied with cave-dwelling and had wanted to surrender. Whatever the truth, I would never know for sure.

But it was easy enough to imagine Ernst going into the back of the cave where the bulk of the men's refuse had been piled, and calling Josef in on some sort of pretext. As Josef leaned over, Ernst delivered the first, stunning blow with a specially chosen rock. Judging from the state of Josef's skull, it had taken more than one blow to finish him off, which shouldn't have been surprising since Josef was a strong Bavarian farm boy, not a barely breathing, wounded woman. Once Ernst's dirty work was finished, he covered the body with rocks and garbage, blocked up the entrance to the second chamber, and left the cave, perfectly disguising the entrance with rocks and brush. Not even the coyotes had been able to claw their way inside to get at Josef's body. Ernst had hidden the scene of his crime so well that it had remained undiscovered for more than sixty years, and it would have remained undiscovered forever if Gunter hadn't drawn his map.

Did Gunter ever suspect what had happened to his friend? I couldn't help but believe that as the years went by and nothing was heard of Josef again, he began to wonder. Maybe he drew his map as a precursor to packing into the Wilderness himself to find out the truth, but then, as it so often does, life got in the way. But there was also the possibility that Gunter didn't want to know, that he preferred to believe his friend was back in Germany, working in the green fields of Bavaria with his wife and the child she had been carrying when he was called to war.

I gave the skull a final soft touch, then began to back out of the chamber. As I did so, I heard scrambling from the rock face below the cave. Had one of the hikers I'd seen earlier back on the Peralta Trail noticed me climbing up the rock face and decided to see what I'd found?

The Lost Dutchman Gold Mine, perhaps?

Then again, the climber could be someone more sinister than a casual gold-seeker. I'd told Warren where I was going, but doubted if I was in any danger from him. Something else occurred to me then. When I reviewed my early morning conversation with Warren on the set, I remembered the breeze blowing in from the west. It might conceivably have carried our words to the crowd of by-standers. Careless, yes, but that kind of thing happened when you let your personal drama get in the way of your job.

No matter. The person—and I knew who it had to be—nearing the mouth of the cave was in more danger from me than I from him. When he looked in the cave's first chamber, he would see nothing but darkness, yet he himself would be illuminated by the daylight behind him. Not good planning on his part. I didn't even consider myself trapped, not back here in the second chamber, well-protected from whatever firepower the killer might throw at me. Of course, there was always the problem of ricochets, but all I had to do was hunker down behind some rocks. He, however…

“Lena? Lena Jones? Hey, it's great running into you like this!”

I didn't answer the killer, just let him continue to call out to me. Then, with no response forthcoming, he foolishly stuck his head into the cave opening. I was already prepared, with my flashlight in my left hand and my .38 in my right. Before he could enter the cave, I shone the strong beam straight into his face, momentarily blinding him.

“Why if it isn't Mark Schank,” I called. “Don't tell me you made the hike all the way out here just to sell me that Camaro.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Having followed me all the way from the Peralta Trailhead, Mark must have been hiding behind some creosote bushes when I'd looked back up at the Fremont Saddle. He could easily have blended in with the other hikers, and when the crowd thinned after the steep ascent began, he stayed far enough behind that I couldn't recognize him.

At first Mark pretended that yes, he only wanted to talk cars, but when he saw his first pitch wasn't working, he tried another. “There's been a big misunderstanding, Lena. Come on out so we can talk.” He forced an insincere salesman's laugh. “This trail I'm standing on is pretty damn narrow and I'm not great at heights.”

“Don't be such a baby, Mark. It's thirty feet at the most, and not that steep.” My voice echoed around the rocks, almost loud enough to wake the dead, although Josef showed no signs of stirring. But Mark was active. I could hear him walking back and forth on the narrow trail, muttering to himself. He was probably armed, what little good that did him. Both Fay and Harry had been shot at close range, which probably meant he wasn't confident of his ability as a marksman. By contrast, I could shoot a mosquito off a fly's ass at twenty paces.

To let him stew, I turned off the flashlight. At that, he stopped pacing and leaned forward, staring blindly into the cave's inky interior. I wondered if he would try shooting me in the dark. I didn't have to guess long. Fool that he was, Mark did shoot. Twice. As I had suspected, the bullets, probably full metal jackets, ricocheted around the cave's rock walls, throwing up splinters of rock and the stench of cordite. The noise almost deafened me but I knew I was safe in my natural fortress. Mark didn't know about the cave's second chamber and when I remained silent, he fired twice again, obviously unaware that in this situation he could shoot himself more easily than he could shoot me.

When he heard no screams of pain or pleas for mercy, he began firing again. The second round bounced around and around the first chamber, then back out the cave's opening. I remained cautious. Before he snapped off his first shots, I'd managed to get a fleeting look at his weapon, a 9-mm semiautomatic, probably a Beretta. In all, I'd counted six shots, which meant he would have nine rounds left. My .38 only held six, so I was loathe to risk an out-and-out gunfight. Even fools got lucky. Edging my head carefully around a rock, I peeked out.

What was this? Mark still couldn't see me, but I could see him. He leaned against the edge of the cave opening, one hand grasping desperately at a protruding rock, almost as if he feared he was about to slip off the trail and roll down the slope. His head shook back and forth in a stuttery tremor, and he made odd, gulping sounds. Then I saw the seep of blood high on the shoulder of his white business shirt. The idiot
had
shot himself.

“Throw down your gun, Mark!” I shouted. “I'm armed, too, and I have a better sight line than you. No ricochet problems, either.”

Low curses answered me at first but they faded into whines. “I need help, Lena. I'm bleeding to death.”

A plaintive whine, but I knew better than to trust it. Monsters like Mark could act pathetic whenever it suited them. Besides, from what I could see, the placement of his wound wasn't serious, but I didn't want to take a chance. “If you throw down the gun, I'll come out and stop the bleeding.” For good measure, I added, “I'm trained in CPR, too. Just in case. And I still have a lot of water left in my canteen.”

I heard only pained breathing for a few moments, then a loud clatter, as if he'd tossed something onto the rocks below. It sounded nothing like metal hitting calcite. “Nice try with the rock, Mark. Now how about tossing the gun for real?”

The cursing rose again, fell again. Still, he refused to give up. In his untrained opinion, he was the pursuer, I was the prey. And he was oh, so wrong. He couldn't perch out there forever on the narrow trail. No matter how minor his wound, blood loss and the afternoon heat would eventually weaken him enough that he would get dizzy and lose his balance. But I had all the time in the world, a cool, safe place out of the sun, plenty of water, and even the company of Josef Braun. I could easily last days in the snug cave whereas Mark probably wouldn't make it through the night. However, there was an alternative scenario, this one much less palatable. Another hiker might come along, attempt to help him, and get shot for his pains. Mark might not have enough ammunition for every hiker who came down the saddle, but how many innocent people would be hurt before he figured that out?

Once more I tried to talk him into surrendering. “You're finished, Mark! How long do you think it's going to be before someone calls the park rangers?”

He summoned up enough strength for a defiant answer. “I'll take care of them just like I'm going to take care of you, bitch.”

Which was exactly what I feared. Since reason wasn't working, I tried psychological warfare. I uncapped my canteen and took a noisy drink of water, making the process loud enough for him to hear my satisfied gurgles. The cave's echo amplified the sound even further. “Boy, you must be getting thirsty out there, Mark. How hot is it now? Eighty-five? Ninety? This might even be the first day of the year where we get up to a hundred! It's always hotter against rock, too, and there you are, having to hold on to it. Come to think of it, how are your hands? Getting cut up? I thought ahead and brought along some climbing gloves, but when you followed me out from the set, you didn't have that luxury, did you? You had to come as you were to our little surprise party, white shirt, wingtips and all. I'd like to help you, guy, I really would.”

I waited for an answer. Nothing. As miserable as he had to be, Mark remained panting and scrabbling at the mouth of the cave, refusing to either leave or surrender. Yet could anyone blame him? I might have done the same thing if I had murdered three people in a state where the death penalty was still in effect.

In the unlikely event I could raise a signal on my cell phone, I switched it on, but couldn't even raise static. Mark used the noise of the dial beeps to attempt to home in on my position. He fired another couple of rounds, but was careful this time to keep his torso sheltered against the cliff face. Naturally, he missed again, and I could hear his furious cursing as he realized it. For a moment, I was tempted to end the standoff by simply shooting him, then decided against it. There had already been too many deaths in this long string of sorrows. The first to die had been Werner Drechsler, the POW who had been tortured and hanged at Erik Ernst's instigation. Then came the five Bollingers, then Josef Braun, and sixty years later, Erik Ernst himself. Finally, Fay and Harry. If Mark had his way, my name would be added to the list. But I've always been the oppositional type; want me dead and I fight to live.

In the end, what had all those killings been for? As I had finally figured out, there were three different killers and three different motives. The Ernst murder was the most understandable, because blackmailers are so frequently killed.

The Bollingers' killer…In his own perverse way, he had killed for love.

Ols/kdSAuG?CFG.
Fay's notes proved she had guessed, but out of fear of a libel suit her publisher's attorneys hadn't let her print the solution to the crimes in
Escape Across the Desert
. If they had, Ernst, Fay and Harry would probably be alive today.

And Gilbert Schank would be in prison where he belonged.

Ols/kdSAuG?CFG
. Oldsmobile. Kids. Auction guy. Chess' friend Gilbert.

Classic car dealer Gilbert Schank, who in those days rode the schoolbus with Chess, probably shared joyrides in the Olds with his friend. In a prescient echo of his future profession, he had fallen in love with Edward Bollinger's '39 Oldsmobile. Sixty years later Gilbert still described the Olds to me as “one smooth, snazzy ride,” but at the time, I didn't realize what I was actually hearing. Nor did I understand the import of Chess' statement:
the gas said it.

But that was clear now, too.

With gas rationing the rule of the day, Edward Bollinger kept a close measure of the gas in his precious 1939 Oldsmobile, and at some point, realized someone had been sneaking rides. The obvious suspect would be his own delinquent son. On Christmas evening, the half-drunk Edward was probably infuriated when Chess didn't return home in time for Christmas dinner and decided to confront his son and beat him within an inch of his life. What Edward didn't know was that someone else had also been sneaking rides.

Gilbert Shank.

I shouted out to Mark. “Tell me if I'm wrong, Mark, but here's how I think the Bollinger killings went down. After he'd had his own Christmas dinner, your dad made his way down to the Bollinger place for a little
àpres
-meal joyride. He'd always been successful before, so why not now? But this time, something was different. Edward Bollinger was waiting by the car with his shotgun, mean as only a drunk can be.”

Silence from the cave mouth. He was listening. It was so quiet, I could hear birds calling outside, the tiny scurryings of a gecko on the rock wall near me.

Encouraged, I continued with my tale. “I remember seeing Gilbert, your dad, on those stupid television commercials you hated so much, and although he wasn't a big man, I imagine he was pretty spry as a teenager. Stronger than Edward, too, since Edward had worn himself out physically by heavy smoking and drinking. So it wasn't too hard for your father to wrestle the gun away from Edward. I doubt if he meant to blow Edward's head off, though. That part of it was an accident. Right, Mark?”

“You don't know what you're talking about!” But his protest rang hollow, convincing me that my theory was right. Time passes away, but truth never does.

Enough light filtered from the outside to the second chamber that I could see Josef lying beside me, mute witness to this end story. Reassured by his presence, I touched the cracked leather of his boot. Mark was alone out there with his rage and fear, but I had the company of someone Frank Oberle had described as “a good boy.” A gentle boy. The kind of boy who had trained the rabbits around Camp Papago to eat from his hand. Had he been comforted in his lonely tomb when the geckos made nests in his bones?

Suddenly I heard a noise outside and lifted my gun, concerned that Mark might try to rush me. But he was merely shifting position. Good. Maybe he was getting a cramp.

I gave Josef's boot a final pat and like a modern-day Scheherazade, continued spinning my tale. “Meanwhile, back at the ranch, right, Mark? Edward Bollinger is dead, and by now, Gilbert's adrenaline is making him crazy. He wants nothing more than to get away without being seen, because he knows if he's caught, he'll be shipped off to whatever hellhole passed for a juvenile detention center in those days. But shotguns make a lot of noise, enough that Joyce Bollinger hears it all the way back in the house. Maybe she thinks her drunken oaf of a husband had fallen and accidently shot himself, so she goes out to investigate. Good mother that she is, she keeps the children inside. Maybe she takes a flashlight because the countryside's pretty dark. At first she doesn't see her murdered husband, just a friend of her son's holding a shotgun. Too bad for her and too bad for the Bollinger children that she recognizes little jockey-sized Gilbert with his beaky nose.”

I'd created the scene so well that I could smell Joyce Bollinger's fear. Or was it Mark's? Rank. Acid. The stench overpowered the musk of the cave, the scent of wildflowers outside, the mint of my ChapStick.

“Joyce has no way of knowing that the shotgun is now empty, so when Gilbert orders her into the kitchen, she complies. Maybe she thinks she can calm him down—mothers can be good at that—and maybe she almost does. From everything I've heard about her, Mark, she was an extraordinary woman. She certainly made an impression on…” No, best not to mix Gunter up in this. Except for that botched murder attempt against Ernst back in Connecticut, Gunter had harmed no one.

“It doesn't work out that way, though. Gilbert is too far gone. Yet this is where his smarts kick into play. With what would eventually become his silver-tongued salesman's pitch, the same one he'd use to sell thousands of cars, he convinces Joyce that all he wants is to get away, but to do that, he needs to tie the family up so they can't get to the phone before he's put miles between him and the farmhouse. How am I doing, Mark?”

Nothing. But I knew he was listening.

“Gilbert finds some rope, farms are lousy with them, and ties up Joyce first. He probably wonders briefly where Chess is, but then again, kids always tell each other the damnedest things. Maybe he knows Chess is out with Sammy, terrorizing the town. Anyway, after tying up Joyce, he ties up the children: twelve-year-old Jenny, ten-year-old Robbie, eight-year-old Scotty. Maybe he thinks about not killing them. Maybe, for a minute, he thinks about hopping in the car and driving like hell for Mexico before they untie themselves and call the authorities. Or he could just give himself up. Killing that family really wasn't necessary, was it? Your father was only fifteen at the time, and if he'd confined the killing to Edward alone, there was a fifty-fifty chance he'd draw a lenient judge, someone soft-hearted enough to put him away for only a few years. When he was released, his life would still be in front of him. Too bad for everyone involved that your father turned out to be as murderous as he was hot-headed.”

Mark called me names that would make a sailor blush. Good. Anger causes people to make mistakes.

“For a while I wondered why Gilbert didn't give himself up at that point, until I remembered how he felt about cars. Even back then he was obsessed with them. If he gave himself up, he'd have to return the car, and he refused to do that. After all, he'd killed a man over it. By the way, Mark, where is the damned thing?”

Mark didn't answer, but remembering Gilbert Schank's protective Navajo housekeeper, the long shared history between the Schanks and the Tsosies, I could guess. “I'll bet Edward Bollinger's Oldsmobile is hidden somewhere up on the Navajo Reservation. Did your dad ever take you up there for a spin?”