Animal Parts: A Peter Romero Mystery

By David Knop

Cochiti Pueblo Policeman Peter Romero, a mean dog best caged, is stunned when he discovers a mountain lion he has killed sitting on his bed at home. The big cat demands vengeance for his mate and cubs killed by poachers. Game wardens die while Romero pursues a rocky, twisting trail from the rugged slopes of New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo Range to the hot, flat prairies of central Oklahoma. He uncovers the killers: a Cheyenne family suffering from the dreaded Windigo Psychosis, a malady that transforms its victims into ravenous monsters who eat everyone they encounter.
Romero attacks the windigos, but is astonished when they will not die. With dog jaws of a windigo crushing his neck, Romero uses his connections to the spirit world to consult a long-dead hunter of the monsters who says the only solution is to change the course of history. He may be too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781944784256

Book preview

Sue

Prologue

One shot. There would be one, and only one. Cougar hadn’t seen him. In the crosshairs the animal looked off toward the far hills. The big cat was a magnificent male, the picture of wild virility, a feline in the prime of his life. Miss and he’d be gone forever.

The mountain lion yawned. His open maw dominated the view in the Bushnell riflescope. Something about a warm day and a full stomach to make anyone, especially a cat, sleepy. His red-tawny coat gleamed like warm caramel in the afternoon sun. Shoulder muscles pulsed as he panted on a flat rock five hundred yards from Peter Romero’s cover behind a dead stump. Aside from an oozing cut near his nose, Cougar seemed healthy. Why had this mountain lion attacked two people?

The wind shifted. Cougar’s head swiveled to face him. Maybe he sensed Romero’s presence, the smell of his breath, or the tension of a slow trigger squeeze.

In the scope, Cougar’s eyes looked like cold black whirlpools centered in yellow seas. The eyes showed intelligence, revealed a spirit. Here was a being aware of its past and conscious of a future.

Ancestors knew a person could become an animal and an animal could become human. They respected animals and held deep reverence and honor for them before and after the hunt. Shame burned Romero’s skin. He was about to betray that bond for money. Cougar alerted. Romero fired. Cougar died with eyes asking, Why

Chapter 1

Romero looked down at the dead feline. This cat had killed one hiker and injured a second in separate attacks near Bandelier National Monument yesterday. The first victim was discovered partially eaten in a ravine after another trekker had found her abandoned backpack. Later that day, the mountain lion had pulled a second hiker into a ditch. The woman’s companion grabbed her legs and fought a tug of war until a group of passing mountain bikers chased the feline away with rocks. One hit Cougar in the face, cutting the left side of its muzzle. No question, this was the offending predator.

Romero took measurements, but stretching out the two-hundred-pound carcass proved difficult. He avoided the cat’s eyes, still open, asking the same question.

"Should’ve stayed away from people, mókats, he said, recording on his cell the girth of the body and the size of Cougar’s paws. The length nose-to-tail measured nearly eight feet. Gonna send your stats to Boone and Crockett so you can join the immortality of records."

He flipped his braid back; then checked the cat’s mouth. The gleaming canines measured just short of two inches. No teeth were broken or missing. This was one healthy animal. If Cougar had reasons to prey on humans, injury or sickness was not the cause.

Romero was pleased his tracking skills had not deteriorated doing things policemen do like writing speeding tickets and tracking down the occasional psychopath. Now the shooting was over and what he’d done brought no pride, no exhilaration, only exhaustion and shame because, to him, Cougar was sacred, a creation of Thinking Woman, Sus’sistinako, a spider and creator of all things.

The elders believed each animal exhibited its own defining characteristics, and over the years, he’d come to believe it true. Cougar, the master hunter, displayed leadership. He was intelligent, loyal, courageous, took responsibility, and enjoyed foresight. Elders said Cougar linked humans to the higher spirits.

He spotted a ragged pelt a few yards away, walked over. Coyote had torn into it, but Romero recognized it as a mountain lion’s skin. Smaller, female most likely. Had Cougar been standing guard over a lost mate?

Oh, man, he said. He exhaled, stood, and started down hill. The ancestors bonded with their prey. Is that what just happened? Maybe there was some prayer meal at home. I’ll find something to honor your sacrifice, he said over his shoulder.

A necropsy was required for all killer cats, but there was no way to manhandle the heavy carcass to his Jeep parked on St. Peter’s Dome Road. The hike from the Jeep was a bitch, so he’d need a horse and a pack mule to get the cat out to the road.

New Mexico Game and Fish had contracted him to kill the cat because he had a rep as a tracker and the mountain lion had trailed toward Cochiti Pueblo. Game and Fish figured Romero still held his job as pueblo policeman, a technicality he had no inclination to correct.

He was no longer a cop. He was a fired cop. Fired not because he had killed a dirty cop years ago, or because he’d dodged numerous state and federal charges over the years. He’d been fired for failing to pay a towing charge. The pueblo governor, a prick who could not resist the opportunity, insisted Romero was out of jurisdiction at the time of the tow and had to pay. Romero declined. The pueblo council demanded payment. Romero refused, so they fired him. When the paydays stopped, he’d pondered his decision, but refused to reconsider. He understood his stubbornness surprised no one in the pueblo.

Broken hills that dropped cliffs several hundred feet toward the pueblo slowed travel. He’d shot the cat near a cliff face, one of a half-dozen he’d have to avoid before he got to the road, not an easy task. Didn’t matter how difficult, though: no cat, no pay.

# # #

It was late by the time he returned with a trailer containing Phil, his neighbor’s dun gelding, an animal as stubborn as he was skittish, and the mule, Chupitos, a shaggy coated gray-face whose only redeeming quality was his calming effect on Phil. Romero backed Chupitos, then Phil, out of the trailer, checked and tightened cinches and straps, mounted Phil and headed uphill. Now, it was a matter of finding the mountain lion and hauling him out. The mule followed with head pulled back, nostrils working the evening breeze. Damn mule wanted to be home.

Me too, Chupitos, Romero said.

At the trailhead, Phil paid more attention to the mule than he did to the path, looking back often enough to scrape Romero against several trees. A slap to Phil’s neck caused him to dance, but he settled down with renewed attention. Chupitos stumbled behind. The trail avoided the many cliffs in the area, but was steep. Both horse and mule puffed like old steam engines. Romero feared the mule might have a tough time with a two-hundred-pound cat on his back.

In the thirty minutes it took to get up the hill, the sun had dropped but not before piercing white clouds with vermillion, gold, green, and royal blue lances. Lightning illuminated thunderheads to the north, but rain wouldn’t come this way. Far off and downslope, lights sparkled. As Romero climbed, he disappeared behind dark hills. Soon civilization faded away and Romero found himself in a world with little reference except overhead where ten thousand stars provided light and the North Star direction.

Chupitos coughed and snorted. The mule was older than Phil, old enough to have known Christ as a corporal, Marines say. The animal was a good trooper, but on his last legs. It seemed the only thing that kept the old boy going was Phil’s rear end, the way he nosed it.

Romero had lived in this area all his life and knew the land. Despite the dark, he found the place where he’d shot Cougar, then tied Phil and Chupitos to a tree. At the rock where Cougar died, there was no dead cat. He fished out a flashlight from Phil’s saddlebags, and then circled the slab. In the white beam, blood covered the rock. No way the cat had crawled off: the animal was stone cold dead when he’d measured him a few hours ago. If a scavenger had stolen the carcass, it left no drag marks, no discarded fur, no entrails, no bones. What kind of beast, or man, could carry off a two-hundred-pound mountain lion? Romero checked for tracks, but the night hid detail. The tattered female pelt remained where he’d seen it last.

Phil screamed. Romero whirled. Chupitos lay on the ground. Phil pulled at his tree in a panic while kicking the mule. The pack animal’s head wobbled at each thudding impact.

Romero ran to the horse, repeating whoa low and slow, faking calmness in the face of horse panic. The animal snorted, pawed the ground, and jerked his head as Romero said, Easy, easy. He grabbed Phil’s reins. It’s okay, Phil. It’s okay.

The gelding’s rear legs had become entangled in the mule’s lead. He leaned in, grabbed the rope. Sparks lit up the sky, then everything disappeared.

Chapter 2

Romero struggled for breath as Cougar paced back and forth over his chest. He was helpless against an animal so big, the fangs, the claws. Cougar eyed Romero like he was going to eat him. No, crazy as it seemed, the cat wanted to say something.

Romero trembled. What do you want? he asked, between gasps. This had to be a dream, but how could a dream be so heavy? The big cat’s paws crushed air from lungs with each step.

I should be asking you that question, Cougar said.

How could this animal–animal?–be talking? What?

Is your memory so poor? Cougar’s canines glinted with each word.

Romero couldn’t take his eyes off them. I haven’t forgotten, he said.

Then answer my question. Why did you shoot me?

I was contrac–

Bullshit. The animal leaned in, yellow eyes caution lights. You better come up with a better answer.

Saliva dripped against Romero’s cheek. You ate two people, he said. He tried to move, but the cat pinned him with a massive paw on each limb.

It was one, and I did what our kind has done since time began.

Then, you can’t blame me for retaliating, Romero said, It’s what our kind, uh, what people do. Like argue with a mountain lion.

I blame all humans, especially hunters like you. I blame you all for the loss of my mate, the loss of my kind, my territory. I had five children, you bastard. Cougar leaned in, enveloped Romero’s neck between his jaws and crushed.

# # #

Wake up, a voice intruded.

Romero bolted upright but his throbbing head forced him to lie back down. Ooh.

You, okay?

He squinted left and right, saw white on white furniture and walls, figured it was a hospital room. He said, No.

Took quite a blow, said Gilbert Juguatz. Things came into focus and the pain pulsed into a dull stab. Juguatz sat in a chair next to the bed. Juguatz had tied his hair in a ponytail, but, as usual, he’d missed half the strands. Hair stuck out at odd angles giving him the look of the recently electrocuted. Romero tried a smile even though his neighbor’s wrinkled and veined face did not look happy. It was good to see him, good to see anyone.

Musta been having some kind a dream, thrashin’ about like that, huffin’ and puffin’, Juguatz said. Tried to call your wife, but if she’s at her mom’s place, you know how that is.

Costancia’s mother lived deep in a canyon on the western side of the state where the modern world, including telephonic transmission, had not penetrated. Her cell would eventually pick up the message if she went into Gallup, but who knew when that would be? In her current state of mind, she might not call back.

Romero felt the bump on the back of his bandaged head. It seemed the size of softball. Ow. What happened?

Phil came home about five in the morning. Figured you got yourself into trouble, so I called the sheriff. He got the dogs out. The hell you do to Chupitos?

He dropped over. I think the climb got to him. Phil kicked him in a panic, too. Could’ve finished Chupitos off.

Damn good mule. You owe me two bucks, what I paid for him. Juguatz stood. Doctor said you gonna survive. Serve you right, you don’t. Juguatz’s smile said he didn’t mean it.

Romero said, Thanks for stopping by. Sorry about Chupitos.

Juguatz headed for the door, but stopped and turned. I’ll look in on you at home, but be careful at night. Been a mountain lion hangin’ around the pueblo. Huge fucker.

Next morning, the Santa Fe Indian Health Service Hospital released Romero with a freshly wrapped head, a paper bag full of painkillers, and orders for bed rest. Juguatz drove his ancient Ford, rust the only thing keeping it together.

Romero checked his phone. FBI Special Agent Jean Reel wanted a return call, but his head hurt too much to talk to her. Maybe tomorrow. Costancia had not called him. He snapped the cell shut.

Hear from Costancia? Romero asked Juguatz. The prospect of going home to an empty house depressed.

Told her you was hit.

What’d she say?

Wanted to know how bad.

How bad? Romero held out his hands. That’s it?

Yup.

Say anything else?

Nope.

Fifteen miles south of Santa Fe, Romero said, I miss her.

Juguatz glanced over from the wheel, Give it time, son. Might work out better now you’re not a cop.

Romero exhaled. Sure.

Juguatz dropped him off, pulled away belching enough smoke to kill every bug in the state, and left Romero to an empty home.

He opened the front door, but not before looking around for cat tracks. Coyote’s footprints were everywhere in the yard, so were a dog’s. The small arrow prints came from Quail, and the four-toed stick figures from Roadrunner. No cat, big or small. Juguatz’s imagination working overtime.

Romero’s home, a brown one-story, two-bedroom adobe sat on an acre not far from New Mexico 22 and separate from the old section of the pueblo. Eighty years old, the place was a modern marvel compared to the pueblo’s buildings predating Columbus. He was pleased to see someone had returned his Jeep, but hoped that would not be the day’s only high point.

His place remained cool and quiet behind two-foot-thick walls that kept street noise and July heat out. Romero walked down the short hall to the kitchen. He stopped at the doorway. Morning light slanted in from high windows on violet-red, black, and gray rugs covering clay tile. An antique stone mortar, and a flat, clay comal were displayed in nichos. A beehive fireplace occupied one corner. Ropes of red chili peppers hung from the ceiling along with blue corn. The beauty of the room saddened him. The place lacked cooking smells. And Costancia.

He retreated to his office, a space that used to be Junior’s bedroom, the boy grown and gone. He checked the home phone and the police phone–former police phone–for messages. None. Back to the kitchen and refrigerator. Empty like it had been for two weeks. It smelled bad, too. Even the damn light had burned out. Looked like another meal from the Circle K.

Romero pulled his meds out of the paper sack and took the pills with water. He went into the bedroom, the empty bedroom, and lay down. Maybe a rest would help build enough energy to make it to the store for food. He closed his eyes.

It could not have been more than thirty seconds before he heard scratching at the front door. He rose. The place was pitch black. He stumbled over to a light, fumbled with the switch, and checked his watch. He’d slept ten hours. Crap.

More scratching. He remembered Juguatz’s words about the lion sighting and went to the gun safe in the office, unlocked it and pulled out a Winchester lever action. Just in case.

He loaded the weapon and grabbed a flashlight from his bed table before heading for the front door. More scratching, louder, more like abrading. Claws, big claws, this was no dog or Coyote. Given time, these claws would slice through the door.

The adobe’s windows were the traditional high ones and there was no way to see into the yard. Romero readied himself, shouldered the rifle. He grabbed the door handle and jerked it open, keeping as much of his body behind the heavy wood as he could.

Nothing. He stepped outside in a crouch, waved the flashlight beam around the yard. Possum’s eyes glistened from under a greasewood bush, his presence proved no big cat, at least not a hungry one, was near. Romero waited and listened. Coyote cried somewhere far off. He straightened, turned back to the house. From a height of three feet to the ground, the door’s surface had been shredded.

Jesus. Romero stepped inside and locked the door. He made sure the living room windows were closed and locked. He did the same in the kitchen and his office.

He padded back to the bedroom. Cougar sat on the bed.

Shit! Romero shouldered the rifle.

You’ve already killed me.

Romero’s bead on the mountain lion disintegrated to a quiver.

Give it up, Cougar said.

What do you want from me? He lowered the rifle.

I want your help.

Help?

A knock on the door. Romero looked at Cougar who said, Get it. Romero went to the door and opened it. Gilbert Juguatz started in, but when Romero blocked the way, Juguatz handed him a pizza box and a quizzical look.

Shouldn’t drive with that baseball on your head.

Romero pulled the bandages off and felt the back of his head. The bump had shrunk, but was still very sore. Guess you’re right. Thanks, Gilbert.

You okay? What the hell’s that for, he said looking at the rifle.

Uh, sorry. When you said big cat, I got spooked.

Juguatz shrugged. Next one knocks, you’ll be ready.

Sorry. Thanks for the dinner, man.

Nada.

Romero returned to the bedroom. Cougar was gone, so he stiff-legged to the front door and checked the exterior for scratches. The door panel was as smooth as the day he’d installed it.

What kinda bullshit is this?

# # #

Romero called the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Office in Bernalillo after a night of tossing, turning, and waiting for Cougar to reappear. Deputy Robert Bowditch had drawn the case, which suited Romero fine. He’d known the man for twenty years.

What happened to me? Romero asked once the man picked up.

I was hoping you could tell me. How you feelin’? Bowditch asked.

I’ll live, but I think you know more ’n me. I was payin’ attention to a horse trainwreck and wham.

Just like that? Bowditch sounded more amused than unbelieving.

Didn’t see, hear, or smell a thing. No tracks I could see in that light either, said Romero, switching ears. Even the handset hurt his head.

Was four of em. Musta been trackin’ that cat, too. Wasn’t for Sandia Search Dogs, never would have found you.

I appreciate the effort, but what’s the deal? Poachers? Romero asked. The bump on his head shot lightning through his skull. He needed more rest.

No, don’t think it was poachers. Can’t find the carcass, but most likely parts hunters, Bowditch said.

Parts? He shifted the handset. Leaning his head to one side hurt. Leaning it to the other hurt. He propped an elbow on the desk. No help. Seein’ much of that these days?

Mostly in Colorado. Western slope. Got reports from incidents near Ouray, Durango, you know, wilderness areas. Cougar. Elk. Bear, sometimes.

Romero had read about the trade, most of it centered on improving virility. Viagra might be cheaper.

Bowditch laughed. Works for me. Gotta go. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, stay off the mountains at night.

Romero hung up, stroked his sore head. Parts hunters. The topic of animal parts had provoked his hunger. He walked into the kitchen, hoping that by some magical process the refrigerator had food in it. It didn’t. He checked the cupboards and remembered he’d eaten all the canned goods, too. He found an unopened can of Crisco. He stared at it, thought about it.

He hopped into the Jeep and drove to the Circle K near Lake Cochiti. It was closed. A sign said, Back at Noon. Romero checked his watch. It is noon, dammit. The nearest place to eat was either in Santa Fe or Bernalillo, twenty minutes either way. He checked his wallet. Fifty bucks left for food and gas. With no money coming in, that can of Crisco started to look good.

Romero motored north on I-25 and took the Cerillos Road exit into Santa Fe. The southern portion of the town was not the part where tourists came by the tens of millions, not the part surrounded by pueblos and the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Certainly not the historic district of adobe homes and pricey restaurants. And not the Santa Fe of new-agers, movie B-listers, art collectors or artists. Here, locals lived and shopped. People here serviced the tourist industry or worked for state government. The main roads consisted of an endless line of shopping centers, chain motels, fast food places, and liquor stores.

He inhaled a hamburger and fries at the Golden Arches, thought what little he’d learned about his assailants then filled the Jeep’s tank at the gas plaza next door and said good-bye to forty bucks.

Romero knew little about the trade in exotic animals, so he called a long-time friend at Game and Fish Law Enforcement Division, Dan Brooker. Brooker asked him to stop by and Romero followed Landfill Access Road to Wildlife Way. Game and Fish was housed in a one-story modern building with a metal roof.

Hear you got your skull cracked the other night, Brooker said first, when Romero entered his office. There was too much mirth in his voice and an impish smile on his round face. Hurt anything?

A lightning strike has nothing on the speed of gossip among cops. Funny.

You doin’ all right? Brooker showed a serious face, this time. Who hit you?

Sheriff figures it was animal parts hunters. Know anything about that?

Brooker looked up at the ceiling, made a tent with his fingers. Yeah, been showing up here and there. First we figured it was weirdo animal worshippers. Then we figured it was some wackos trying to get some press for their Chupacabra tour business.

Chupacabra? You mean those animals supposed to kill goats by sucking out their blood? That bullshit was debunked years ago.

Not if you’re trying to run a bloodsucker tour business. Anyway, exotic animal poaching is showing up more and more. Had a case three months ago in Ruidoso. Sheriff down there busted this couple purchased four adult tigers from one of these parks you drive through in your car.

I thought selling exotic animals was illegal.

Illegal as hell, but get this: the park operator had to get rid of them, so he found a rescue place to take care of them. Here’s the catch.

Sound like real givers.

Brooker drummed the table with his fingers. Fact is, this rescue place bought ’em and that’s the illegal part. Then they cut ’em up. Parts went to Denver, then Asia. The owners faced five years but pleaded down to two. Got off easy, you ask me. And the problem is growing. Right behind drugs and weapons.

Now I see why they clubbed the shit out of me. Romero touched the back of his head. The bump