Bad Spirits

Just Passing Through - Bad Spirits Part 6

Ogden, or Oggie as he liked to be called, had been a veterinarian in the Midwest for over forty years. He'd grown tired of shoveling Nebraska snow and decided to retire in Mexico when his wife died. He'd lived in Mexico ever since.

When I asked him how he came to be the volunteer vet, he banged on the steering wheel.

"One day I woke up and decided I had a moral imperative to help the poor farmers in the area. So I started stockpiling medicine whenever I went to the states. Pretty soon word got around." He grinned. "Keeps me young. And, I'm never bored." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Why was a piece of shit like Jorge after you?"

I sighed and looked out the window.

"Look, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't ask again. I'd just like to know what kind of hornet's nest I stepped in."

I owed him that much. Frank Lanzarotti was Anaya's man, not Salazar's. My life had just become exponentially more complicated.

Still watching the scenery flow by, I said, "Apparently Jorge was working for someone I used to know, Frank Lanzarotti, who works for a drug dealer out of Central America named Vincent Anaya. I was actually running from somebody else and thought Jorge might help me."

Oggie snorted and swerved to miss hitting an opossum lumbering across the road.

"That's a good one. Jorge and the word help have never been uttered in the same sentence, at least, not in recent memory."

"Look, you can drop me at the next town, the next bus stop, hell, the side of the road, even. I don't want to cause you any trouble. I owe you my life. You don't need to be part of this."

Oggie whistled. "Must be some trouble you're in, Miss Kate. Tell you what-" He reached under his seat and brought out a silver flask, unscrewed the top and took a drink. "I'll drive you anywhere you want to go, provided you fill up ol' Bessie's tank." He patted the car's dash affectionately. "But I have to take care of something first." He took another drink and then offered me the flask.

I shook my head. "It's too dangerous. There are some really bad people who want to see me dead, and they wouldn't have a problem killing you to get to me."

Oggie's laugh ricocheted around the car.

"Hell, Kate. I'm so old, dirt's asking me for advice. You think I give a rat's ass about being safe?" He looked at me. "When you get to be my age, you'll understand it's not about how much time you got. It's about how much life you get. Sitting on my ass in a rocking chair isn't a life, far as I'm concerned. Besides," he flicked on the cassette player and Rachmaninoff blasted through the speakers. "You need me."

***

We pulled into Oggie's place an hour later. The small, cinderblock house with a metal roof sat in the middle of the square dirt plot surrounded by a split rail fence. A lemon tree and two mesquites stood sentry at the back of the lot near the house, providing the only shade.

I glanced back down the driveway. My nerves screamed at me to get moving, now.

"What's going to stop Frank from finding your place?" Oggie didn't appear to be a person who flew under the radar. His home would probably be the first place Frank would check.

"Only two people know where I live. I pick up my messages in town and if there's an emergency, the gal at the post office comes and gets me," he replied. "I like it that way. Less bother."

Something told me I wasn't the only person who didn't want to be found. "Who's the other one?"

He shrugged a bony shoulder. "A lady friend. We haven't spoken in a while, though." He unscrewed his flask to take another swig, raising his eyebrows as he offered it to me again. I shook my head.

"No thanks. I need my wits about me."

"Wits are highly overrated," he muttered.

The one room house had a small bathroom off to one side. The kitchen lined one wall and a bed and dresser stood in a far corner. A wooden table, piled high with old newspapers and stacks of books, took up half the living area. I didn't notice a television or a phone.

"This'll just take a minute," Oggie said over his shoulder. He opened the small refrigerator and took out a clear plastic bottle and a syringe. Then he walked around the side of the table. "Wild Bill needs his shot, don't you boy?"

I looked down and realized what I'd thought was a sweater on one of the dining room chairs was actually a large cat. Oggie gathered Wild Bill up in his arms and sat on the chair. He kissed the hairy feline on the head and murmured into his ear.

"We don't have time for this." I kept a nervous eye on the driveway.

"If I don't give the little feller his insulin, he'll lapse into a coma and probably die. Now, if you'll just quit your chit chat, I can give him the shot and we'll be on our way."

He injected the cat and set him on the floor. Wild Bill meowed at me, annoyance plain on his face. Then he shook his head and slowly trundled out the door.

Oggie and I heard it at the same time. A dark-colored SUV barreled down the dirt drive toward us.

"Oh, God. It's Frank." My voice matched the panic that constricted my chest.

He squinted at the car. "Quick—" He shoved me toward the back door. "There's a root cellar behind the mesquites."

I grabbed my pack and ran.

The cellar turned out to be a hole in the ground with a weathered wood door covering it. I heaved the door open and dropped the pack inside, then scrambled down the handmade ladder, slamming the door behind me.

Not the best hideout. The thought of disrupting a nest of snakes or scorpions crossed my mind. Scorpions I could live with. Snakes, not so much. Light streamed in through gaps in the door that allowed me to see, once my eyes adjusted. I pulled the gun out of the front pocket of the pack and crawled as far back as I could go, behind jars filled with some kind of preserves and boxes of dried vegetables.

I stuffed the pack in the rear of the space underneath a couple of boxes, then turned back toward the door and held my breath, listening. A sickening feeling twisted my stomach, and visions of Frank beating Oggie to death for information played like a bad movie in my brain. Frank wouldn't care who he killed to get the money.

I had a gun. I could use it to help him. But, then again, so did Oggie. He knew how to take care of himself.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I needed to be calm. If I tried to make a decision in panic mode, things could go to hell, fast.

The gun felt faintly reassuring. I opened my eyes and stared at the door, willing Oggie to appear and tell me everything was fine. The longer I sat there, the less certain I became.

I raised my gun at the sound of someone approaching, and aimed it at the door. The footsteps stopped and a shadow fell across the gaps in the wood.

The door opened and fell to the side with a bang. I blinked against the bright light, at first unable to make out the person who peered inside the cellar. Then, I recognized him.

And pulled the trigger.