Head Of The Snake. G. Rehder
yesterday.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jason, I can come out to the ranch today and help you clean up. Sheriff Alvarez said the county would pay me to clean Mr. Mike’s blood in the bathroom.”
“That would be good. I can help too. It would give us a chance to talk.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes. I just dropped my ‘Manual’ off at school. Can I bring you anything from town?”
“I’m okay, got everything I need for now, but thanks.”
“See you soon.” She hung up.
I continued to walk around the property, checking gates and fences. There were repairs that needed to be made. If I was to hold on to the place for a while, I’d need to find a caretaker.
I went over to the outbuilding where we had held our trainings about a year ago. The door was unlocked, and I went in. It looked the same as it did then: lots of easy chairs spread around, flat screen TV on the wall, pool table, and a refrigerator in the corner.
A shower had been added to the bathroom since my last trip. Mike told me he used part of the fifty grand I donated to him from Sarnev to make improvements to the vet center he ran here at the ranch.
If I remembered right, the weekly meetings were held every Monday. Today was Friday. I wondered if they held a meeting four days ago. If they did, I wanted to talk to the men and woman who were in attendance.
I looked around for anything that might be a roster or notes. I found a binder on a shelf. It had pages of notes from previous meetings. The last one held was back in early September. These meetings were important to Mike, along with the vets that attended. There had to be a good reason for them to stop. I flipped back through a lot of pages and found no week going back six months where no meeting was held.
This piqued my curiosity. I read through the names of the vets that attended. Most were the same over and over, a regular group. I studied it deeper. I found only one name that appeared only once. He attended the last meeting held. It only said Vargas. Someone I would really like to talk to.
I heard the sound of a motor down on the road. I walked out of the vets center and saw the dust trail following Rosa’s Nissan heading to the ranch. I walked over to the house so I could greet her there. She pulled in next to my vehicle and got out, carrying a canvas bag.
“Extra cleaning supplies,” she said as she walked up the steps, then added, “I never clean up something like this. I was told to wear mask and googles.”
“Good idea,” I told her. “Let’s get started.”
We went directly to the bathroom. I had avoided it since I had been there, relieving myself outside when I needed to.
Rosa hesitated at the door. “Just yesterday, I found him,” she said. “It still like a dream to me.”
“Yep, me too, a really bad one.”
We both put on rubber gloves. Rosa put on a mask and a cheap pair of safety googles. She filled the tub with hot water and poured in bleach. I grabbed a brush from her bag and began to scrub the back wall. The bleach soon overpowered the smell of dried blood and flesh that had splattered and stuck to the tile.
I tried not to envision Mike lying there as we went about the task. I felt bad for Rosa as she turned away often from the stains that streaked down walls. After about an hour, we were finished. The only sign of what had taken place there, a little over twenty-four hours earlier, was a one-inch hole and cracked and chipped tile that encircled it.
We went to the kitchen, took off our gloves, and threw them in a lined garbage pail by the backdoor. We both washed our hands in the sink, not speaking to each other while we did. When we were done, I offered to make us some coffee and asked her if she had time to tell me more about what she knew of Mike’s last days.
When the coffee was done, Rosa and I went out to the front porch. The strong smell of bleach was still lingering in the house. It had warmed to fifty-three degrees. We each had on our coats, and the warm coffee cup felt good on my hands. Rosa sat on the porch swing, and I sat on the wooden porch, resting my back against a post.
There were a lot of questions I had for her, but I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable and possibly keep her from wanting to respond. But this might be my only chance to glean from her what might lead to Mike’s drug pusher.
I eased into my interrogation by asking about her family. I knew she had a son, Manual. I asked about him, his age, and what year he was in school. I could tell she was proud of him, and she continued to talk about him. I felt she was becoming comfortable and more at ease, and I was truly interested in her life with Manual.
She told me that she lived with her mother, Theresa. Manual’s father had abandoned them before he was born, and her father had just died three years ago. So for now, it was just the three of them, doing the best they could. Rosa was concerned that he had no man in his life to show him the “ways” as she called it.
I found an opportunity and moved the conversation to Mike. “When did you meet Mike?” I asked.
“I work part-time at Gayle’s Café. Mr. Mike would have breakfast there with police chief Loman on Fridays. After his accident, the chief would pick him up and drive him into town, his broken hands you know. Mike asked me if I wanted to work for him, be his driver, and help him with his house. He offered me a lot more than the café, and he said he could work around when Gayle needed me there. That was seven months ago. I work for him since that day. He was a gentleman. When I drove him to Taos for his doctor visits, we always use his car. We then always stop at store, and he buy food for himself and my family. Plus he pay me for my time.”
I smiled at her words. That was the Mike Groves I knew.
I asked what the doctors name was.
She said, “Pandhar, nice lady, good to Mr. Mike. He liked her very much. He would say on our way home.”
“When was the last time you took him to see her?”
“August, middle, it’s very hot on that trip.”
“Did you know any of Mike’s friends or some of the veterans he hung out with?”
“Just some at Gayle’s. I come out from kitchen when Mr. Mike come in with the chief. Sometimes there would be large group at the corner table, all laughing, talking. They all good together. But some days, when Mike not there, I hear them talk. They worry about Mike. They say he not like the way he used to be.”
“Did you ever talk to Mike about their concerns?”
“No, oh no, never. That his business. I want to show respect.”
“What about here at the ranch? See anyone coming or going you didn’t know?”
At this question, she paused and sat thinking before she answered.
I waited, watched, and then her brow wrinkled as if she was in deep thought before she spoke.
“One day, I leave on Mr. Mike’s road, see car coming fast from highway, lots of dust, it pass me. There two men inside. They look at me like they are mad.”
“How long ago?” I asked.
“I think it August too.”
“What did they look like?”
“Look Hispanic, dark glasses, mustaches, both hair dark, one real long, one short.”
“Sounds like you got a good look at them.”
“I worry about Mr. Mike alone at the house. When I get to highway, I pull off behind trees. I wait. I look at time, ten minutes, then fifteen pass. I see them coming down road. Again, fast. When they get on highway, they go north. I look close at them when they pass me. That when I see better. How they look. I drive back to check on Mr. Mike. When I got on porch, I see through window. He was sitting. He did not get up when I drive in. He had gun on lap, a rifle. I knock, say, ‘Mr. Mike, it’s Rosa.’