The Pueblo Pendant

By Mick Davis and Krista Davis Lake

While golfing in the Conrad Hilton Open in Socorro, New Mexico, former Miss New Mexico, now detective, Miitrai (pronounced MIITRA) Riley is 'blasted' into a case of attempted murder of young space scientist Will Craven. Earlier, violence erupted on a dark Sunday night in the small 'rustic', town of Frisco Flats, where Craven and his priest were discussing 'morality questions' of his research of the scientist's 'secret' space discovery. The Vatican was contacted, the answer was 'stop'; a scientist-partner 'mentioned' it to his fiancé at a mega-church; it was a secret no longer. After leaving the rectory, a bizarre 'bola' assault was made against Cravenby a motor-cycle rider a warning was given to him and the Priest. Later the bike-rider 'dumps' near a bridge in town. His back-pack with a 'pendant' inside is pitched into the water where later a corgi dog finds it. The pack is taken to the local Sheriff, Frank Baca. Two weeks later, a 'fisherman' arrives in town seeking the pendant, ' I lost while fishing'. Sheriff Baca is suspicious. Lead flies and the fisherman dies. Others arrive seeking the 'pendant'. Native American Detective, Miitrai Riley realizes the pendant is similar to one her old grand mama on theAcoma Pueblo has kept for years. - 'strange'. Mysteries abound as violence escalates; a kidnapping in front of the cathedral in Santa Fe, a gun fight in Frisco Flats and a violent crash of a multi-million corporate jet at an Alabama airport keep the action level high. The young woman detective uncovers a crime infested foreign corporation, a huge religious money laundering scam, both seeking to recover the pendant and stopping Craven's research. County, State, Indian Reservation and FBI agencies interact in the final events. The case comes to an explosive end in a mysterious building near the 'atomic city' of Los Alamos. Or did it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781977225818

Mick Davis

Mick Davis is a lawyer by training, businessman by vocation. His law practice and work has led him to most States and Provinces of Canada and into England. He was born and raised in California, did graduate school in Oregon. Mick has resided with his wife Lin in Scottsdale, Arizona for years. This is his first attempt at writing a novel; hence his reliance on daughter, Krista.

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The Pueblo Pendant

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2020 Mick Davis and Krista Lynn Davis

v5.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-9772-2581-8

Cover Illustration © 2020 Victor Guiza.. All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the OP logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Time is the fire in which we burn.

—DELMORE SWARTZ

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory of our daughter Krista Lynn Davis Lake. Krista lived her life thinking first of others; she lived a life of love for husband, family, friends, and her animals. It is also dedicated to her loving husband Jeff Lake, who stood with her and her parents through the darkest hours that life can provide. He is standing by and loving their corgis, Tessa and Jackson.

But for Krista’s assistance in providing ideas, writing, editing, plus continued encouragement and support for this effort, this project would not have been undertaken—certainly not completed. It has been completed in her honor.

Any proceeds received from its publication will be donated to the foundation created to help people become more aware of the need for protection, detection, and action to prevent the deadly consequences of skin cancers.

Those who support the foundation Melanoma Kills, Inc. (MELANOMAKILLS.ORG) do so in the same spirit Krista practiced throughout her forty-five years of life.

In The Spirit of Krista.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

NOTE TO READERS

OVERTURE

DON JUAN DE ONATE

PROLOGUE

1: CATS AND SOPAIPILLA

2: SCORPIONS, GOLF, AND DYNAMITE

3: STAY AWAY

4: LULU

5: AM I DREAMING?

6: BIG BIKE

7: WHY, WHO ?

8: TELL ME

9: AND IN SIX DAYS …

10: CHALLENGE

11: A PRIEST

12: ONATE CLUB

13: THE REST OF …

14: GUS GONE

15: LAKE GENEVA

16: HIGHWAY 60

17: MAID ON THE MOUNTAIN

18: HOME

19: THE ROCK

20: DUA’AU

21: SHOTGUN SHELLS

22: LONGNECK BUD

23: DAWSON

24: FISHING

25: COMBAT

26: TWELVE GAUGE

27: FOR REAL

28: THE LADY

29: COWBOY

30: THE FOUR POSTER

31: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

32: SCRAMBLER

33: ALONE

34: THE WHITE ROSE

35: HOTEL SANTA FE

36: SAINT FRANCIS

37: LOS ALAMOS

38: ATOMIC CITY

39: END RUN

40: JUST DESSERTS

41: THE RUN

42: WHITE ROCK PASS

43: KNOTTED CORD RUN

44: THE HUNT

45: RESCUE

46: RICHIE

47: WELCOME

48: BAD LIAR

49: SOFT SPOT

50: CUFF HIM

51: THE TENT

52: SCAM

53: THE FLIGHT

54: HUNTSVILLE

55: BURNING TENT

56: WHAT NOW?

57: PHONE TRAIL

58: FBI —TRY AGAIN

59: THE LETTER

60: RIVER ROAD

61: PROMOTED

62: RODEO DRIVE

63: TUNA SANDWICH

64: RIVER ROCK

65: THE IDIOT

66: BOLA FOUND

67: FRED AND ERNIE

68: MONEY FROM HEAVEN

69: MR. GREED

THE CODA

BIO

NOTE TO READERS

The story in this book is pure fiction but in it we have referred to actual historical events and real locations and individuals, some identified under the heading Historica.

All town and locations mentioned, with the exception of Frisco Flats, do exist.

We will leave it to the reader to look at the map of New Mexico to find the real name of our little village where the fun started and some of the good parts ended.

Enjoy the trip,

Mick Davis and Krista Davis Lake

OVERTURE

They are no strangers to violence; those old and isolated settlements that nestle on the banks of the San Francisco River in western New Mexico have experienced it for centuries.

Even before European explorers arrived, differing factions of native peoples battled over the hunting and gathering rights to the hills, valleys, and meadows of the San Francisco and Gila River basins. Later, Apache bands displaced from the great planes fought over wintering rights of hot springs that dot the headwaters of the Gila.

In the mid-1500s, the Spanish explorer Francisco Vasquez de Coronado and his band of treasure seekers tramped through the region, making war and showing extreme indifference to the people who lived near the river, high deserts, and mountains. The Spanish, always seeking free food and fortified by their superior weapons, would help themselves to everything the locals possessed that the explorers wanted, including corn, turkeys, melons, salt, and beans—sometimes, women.

In 1598, the last Spanish Conquistador Don Juan de Onate brought with him warriors, friars, priests, seekers of riches, and disease. Deadly violence ensued against the region’s Puebloans as the invaders attempted to subjugate and convert. Within months after arriving, de Onate’s soldiers brought death and destruction to the ancient Pueblo of Acoma, killing a third of its people and enslaving or maiming survivors.

In the mid-1880s Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch holed up at a ranch near the town of Alma, New Mexico, while about the same time the notorious outlaw Tom Ketchum moved into Catron County for an extended stay. In the late eighteen hundreds the cowboys from Texas, backed by eastern big-moneyed interest such as John Chisum, John Slaughter, and others, promoted violence in their attempts to take the water and fields from earlier settlers whose lands bordered the area’s streams and rivers.

In 1884, resistance to the cowboys came in the form of eighteen-year-old Elfego Baca who deputized himself and rode across the plains 110 miles from Socorro to Middle Plaza on the San Francisco. The local Slaughter-Ranch-bunch objected to his catching and holding one of them—Charlie McCarthy—in an adobe house with a floor dug below ground level. From inside the house Baca demanded the ranch hands be out of there by the count of three. Outside, the cowboys joked about the young man not being able to count, but young Baca called their bluff in a single quick breath, shouting One-two-three! then quickly shooting through the door. The showdown, one of the most unequal and unique in American history, was dubbed the Frisco War. Elfego Baca won it and later Walt Disney made a TV series from it.

But our story is not set in the past; it is modern-day New Mexico, where outer space and other advanced research of every kind takes place in some of the most sophisticated and secret scientific laboratories on earth. But even there, nefarious actions and adventures take place, as we shall see.

DON JUAN DE ONATE

1598

HISTORICA

SORRO

In the year 1598, a third generation Spanish–Mexican named Don Juan de Onate negotiated a deal with the king of Spain to colonize the land that lay northeast of Mexico. For three years de Onate recruited priests, servants, and five hundred soldiers—mostly with families—then led them across the treacherous deserts of northern Mexico on his way to invade the land of eighty thousand Puebloans, a place we now call New Mexico.

In the spring of 1598, the last Spanish conquistador and his caravan crossed the great river just north of present day El Paso, Texas. From there they struggled north to where he believed the heathens, who had lived on their lands for thousands of years and worshipped in their traditions, were ripe for conversion and subjugation—mostly subjugation.

Within days, de Onate’s caravan was lost and running short of drinking water and food, and mutiny was being discussed among the troops. But alas, good fortune awaited Onate and his caravan; they stumbled upon a native village of the Piro-speaking people, called Teypna. The Teypanas, unlike the other villagers de Onate had encountered, showed no fear of the strangers and for the first time on the trek indigenous people indicated friendliness toward the invaders.

The head man of the village crossed the river to talk with the invaders, who begged for food; the Teypanas obliged. De Onate, being the generous gentlemen that he was, reciprocated by renaming the native Pueblo Socorro, Spanish for assistance.

Over four hundred years after that naming, Socorro plays a part in our story and this small town is where our chief of detectives of the Socorro County Sheriff’s Department, Miitrai Riley, lives.

PROLOGUE

She was never really sure who tossed the bola that night, but was quite sure Will Craven was the only space scientist ever decked by one.

It started in front of the rectory when Will heard the swish, swish, swish, just after he left the porch and the light went dark. But he didn’t stop or turn back, just kept going, feeling his way toward the street and his Porsche. Then came the hit and his legs didn’t work; he fell forward and on the way down his head hit a boulder and his lights went out.

She found out about it a week later and after that things got complicated.

APRIL 21, 2018

SORRO, NEW MEXICO

Friday was dress down day for all personnel of the Socorro County Sheriff’s Department, except officers on patrol, and had been so for nearly a year. Today was Friday, but twenty-nine-year-old Chief of Detectives Miitrai Riley had dressed up, like she did every Friday since Hunter went away to war, twenty seven months ago—792 days to be exact. And, nobody in the sheriff’s department resented her doing so; they knew why she did it.

It was five thirty when the regular Friday afternoon boss-called meeting broke up with a Sorry we ran a little long. But long didn’t bother the detective, she had no plans for the evening and anyway she was going back to the office to do some catch-up, and might do dinner later at Connie’s Place.

That morning, the slender five-foot-nine-inch woman had dressed "casual up, as she called it, in a sailing-green tank and top with three-quarter sleeves, scalloped hem, and bateau neckline. She complemented that with a seven-strand, multicolored bead necklace Hunter had sent her two years before on her twenty-seventh birthday from somewhere in one of those war-torn countries that ended in stan." Her jeans were ripple washed, boot cut, and the ankle boots were fawn with buckles. For jewelry she wore a vintage 1960 yellow-gold Omega De Ville watch with a braided gold band, another gift from Hunter, given her on their first wedding anniversary.

The meeting being over, she wished everyone a safe weekend then walked through the hallway and let the sculpted heels of the ankle boots click on the polished concrete. It was after five on Friday—most people were gone.

Back in her private corner office, she put her notepad in the top drawer of her desk and moved a stack of three reports to a side drawer while thinking of the night—another Friday night. Weekends were the worst of times, too much time to think, to remember, remember when, and the what if’s?

She shook her head and wiped her eyes; tears came quickly sometimes. Then she heard a ping. She glanced at her computer screen, reached over, and opened the email from Sheriff Frank Baca of Catron County—the big empty county that bordered Socorro County on the west:

Miitra—attached: Two write-ups of an assault that happened last Sunday night in the Flats. One report by victim—young man Will Craven—other by new deputy, Tom Vernon. Not your standard incident reports, but you will get the message. Mr. Craven, lives in your county so thought you might like to have these.

May have been a prank, maybe not. Might not be a bad idea to give this guy Craven a call—phone number on the paper—see if there has been any trouble out your way since. My first thought was a woman issue. Craven’s some sorta scientist—works at the Array on those big scopes—young, single.

Hope you’re doing OK. Stay safe. See ya Saturday morning for breakfast and golf. —Frank.

She opened the attachments and glanced over the reports, which gave bare details of the event. She finished reading them, thinking, What am I missing here? She reread the short write-ups, thought more about them, then, surmised what really went on out there was something like this:

FRISCO FLATS

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Until it happened things had been quiet that Sunday night in the small western New Mexico town of Frisco Flats, population two hundred and eighty five. A little after nine, newly hired Catron County Sheriff Deputy Tom Vernon walked into the Silver Platter Café, where the only person in the place was the owner, Gene Corder, who was known as GC by most. Corder was about to close up shop for the night.

Sit where ya like, Tom; you’re my least customer. Gonna lock the door—dead tonight. Hungry?

Yep, GC, burger, fries, and coffee. And yes, sure is dead; just drove around town and Duke’s Place is shut, nothing going on at the churches—even the laundromat closed early. Guess the only place with lights on for business is the sheriff’s office at the courthouse, but even there the jail is empty. Pretty quiet.

Outside, an early April breeze drifted over the nearby sage and pinion-covered foothills and flowed through the unlit, unpaved streets of the village where most villagers had settled in behind locked doors and shuttered windows.

Up Pinion Street, the lights that usually highlighted the ochre-colored rammed-earth tower of the small Sanctuary of Saint Francis were out and no light came from the pueblo-style rectory next door. Around town dogs barked, some at real or imagined critters, some at each other, and some at unfamiliar sounds out there in the dark.

Inside the church’s rectory, lanky, thirty-three-year-old Will Craven and chubby, round-faced forty-year-old Father Gustoff Gus Belzer were finishing an evening of friendly and worldly discussions. The banter had been light but enlightening and made more so by their enjoyment of a bottle of fine Spanish Albariño wine and cheese from the priest’s home country Belgium. Fresh bread was from the oven of Maria, the priest’s housekeeper.

It was getting late and Will sipped the last of his wine, stood, and extended his hand. "Father, the food was good, the wine better, company and conversation the best, but it’s time to go, and to paraphrase a dead poet, ‘I’ve made promises I must keep and must travel many parsecs and then I sleep.’ I have an early morning date with a supercomputer at the VLA over there on the plains, so thanks for everything."

The priest smiled at Will’s stab at classic poetry and in his booming basso voice with a Belgian-French accent responded, "Poetry, Will? But what can I expect—space scientist, certainly not a poet, but parsecs? I’m impressed. They both chuckled as the younger man gave his friend a light tap on the shoulder, walked to the door, opened it, and turned the porch light on. He said, Good night," walked out, and closed the door, and two seconds later the porch light went out. Will could see nothing.

He didn’t move; he waited for his eyes to adjust, but nothing changed. It was still black—no moon, no lights, and a cloud-cover prevented any starshine from reaching the ground. He hesitated, I can feel my way, he said to himself, then moved a foot and scraped it on the ground trying to determine the border of the path that would lead him to the street and his parked car. He used his foot to touch football-sized rocks along the path, using them as a guide as he moved forward.

Then it came, the swish, swish, swish—he felt the hit and his legs locked. Confused and thrown off balance, he fell, fell face down—a dead-hard fall. His head struck a large rock; for nearly a minute he remained unconscious before his brain fog lifted and he moved his fingers on his right hand. He tried to stand, to get away, to defend himself, but he had only heard the swish but saw nothing. He lay still, listening—nothing. He tried to use his left hand and arm to raise himself to a sitting position but without success; his bound legs were a problem.

He tried a shout: What the hell! Who are you; what do you want? But there was only silence. He reached below his knees and tried to loosen the tight straps wrapped around his legs but couldn’t. His hand followed one strap to its end—a hard ball, then another ball on another strap. He touched his lips and chin—blood. He could feel it, taste it. He again reached for the straps on his legs as a bright beam of light hit him in the face followed by the crackling of a motorcycle engine. He raised his injured right hand to shield his eyes while clawing at the straps with his left.

He tried to roll, to move his body sideways, but stopped as a tire halted inches from his face. Looking up he could make out the bike rider dressed in black clothing and headgear. He again attempted a shout but produced only a weak croak, then flinched as a gloved hand pushed his head back while another grasped the straps and balls and ripped them from Will’s legs and shoved them into a saddle bag. The rider raised his right hand, made a pistol form with two fingers, pointed it at Will’s head, and shouted Pow, pow! He turned the bike and sped down Pinion Street toward Main. Will was trying to stand when the rectory porch light came on.

As the commotion was taking place in front of the rectory, down Pinion Street where it ends at Main newly hired Catron County Sheriff Deputy Tom Vernon stood at the pay counter of the Silver Platter Café and called over the bat-wing doors that led to the kitchen. Good food, GC, here’s the money. I better get back to work—a long, dark night ahead.

GC walked to the cash register. Yep, shoulda closed a couple hours ago.

The deputy laid five dollars and twelve cents on the counter for his burger, fries, and coffee. Good burger, GC; still get it from the butcher that does Frank Baca’s beef?

Yep, night, Deputy.

Night, GC.

Tom turned and walked out the door onto a dimly lit porch and hesitated there a few moments listening, then moved toward the dark parking lot at the side of the café where his patrol pickup was parked. He halted, thinking: Yes, again. I heard it—up Pinion Street. There had been a shout, then came the crackle of an engine starting. He turned and trotted back to the street and looked to where he could hear what sounded like a motorcycle engine, then saw a light swing and move down Pinion Street toward him. He waved his arms and shouted, Stop, stop, I need to talk to you! Then; Stop, in the name of the law!

The door to the Silver Platter swung open and GC trotted out onto the porch and watched. The bike sped up as it approached the deputy, who was still waving his arms. It then swerved around Tom as the rider raised his left hand with a middle finger salute, ran through the stop sign, and sped north on Main Street toward the San Francisco River bridge, two blocks away.

From up Pinion Street someone was shouting; Help—tried to kill—stop—

Tom yelled at the café owner, GC, help that caller up the street, please, I want to chase that bike, catch that bastard. He sprinted to the pickup, started it, put it in reverse, and backed up ten feet while hearing a flip-flop, flip-flop. He grabbed the flashlight from the seat, threw the door open, jumped out, and trotted around the vehicle, flashing the beam on the tires. It was the front right one—a long-handled ice pick dangled from the side of the tire. Ah, evidence.

Tom was dialing the dispatcher to report the incident but hung up as an old Buick Roadmaster pulled to a stop at the corner by the café. The passenger side window was open and the driver leaned across the seat.

Deputy, I just came down Main and saw a motorcycle on its side at the bridge where River Road takes off. A man dressed in dark clothes was standing looking down toward the riverbed; kinda looked like he was looking for som’thin’. Musta spun out on that motorcycle. I stopped and yelled, ‘Do you need help?’ but he just turned and ran to the bike, put on his helmet, and went up River Road like crazy. Never said a thing. Short guy, kinda small for a guy on such a big bike, I thought, strange. My names Sanchez, live up on Pinion Street if you need anything else. Gotta go. Oh, you’re new to town, right?

Yep, two weeks, Tom replied.

Welcome to Frisco Flats, Deputy. Night.

Miitrai finished reading then dialed Will Craven’s number written on the deputy’s report. The line clicked on with a message that Craven was at Cal Tec in California for a few days and would be back in time for the Elfego Baca Golf Shoot on the weekend. She left a message and a return phone number, hung up, and sat thinking about what she had read.

Why did Frank send this to me? She thought. Anyway, as Dad would say about a case not in his jurisdiction: Not my dog. Hope it stays that way. She made a note to herself—give Deputy Vernon a call Monday.

She closed and locked her office door, washed her face, and touched up her hair in the office washroom—no makeup on. Then she walked out the door to the parking lot to her Jeep Grand Cherokee and drove three blocks to Connie’s Place for dinner.

She was home and in bed by ten o’clock, thinking about the next day: Saturday, a fiesta-golf day in Socorro. It was the day for the Hilton Open and the Elfego Baca Golf Shoot. She was looking forward to playing—to a day off.

1

CATS AND SOPAIPILLA

SATURDAY, APRIL 22

SOCORRO, NEW MEXICO

The full moon shone on the sleeping town and spread lumens across the Rio Grande Valley and high desert that crawls westward to the base of the Sierra Diablo—the Devil Mountain. The old town of Socorro was at peace and ready for fiesta. The night wore on, drifting toward dawn, while the moon sank toward the western skyline, making way for morning. As the night began to wane, high above the desert, above the mountains, the cold air began to descend, reversing a cycle that began the day before. Air from the valley floor that rose in the afternoon was now cooled into a heavier mass and began to settle toward earth. As it fell from the sky, it assaulted the high peaks and sharp ridges of the Devil Mountains, bounced off their shoulders, and shushed through their slalom-like canyons, hitting the talus at the eastern base of the mountains then flowing east like invisible water onto a desert delta and toward the Rio Grande,

As the wind neared the river, it invaded the old town of Socorro where sleepers were awakened by raspy whispers and mournful whistles as the fast-moving currents slithered through the town’s narrow streets and alleyways and across its empty central plaza. It flowed past recessed stone stoops of doorways to centuries-old buildings where four-legged, self-appointed sentries sat hiding from more than the fast-moving cool air. Through alert slatted eyes, these furry felines kept watch for stray dogs, urban coyotes, or hungry prairie falcons who sought adventure—and maybe breakfast.

To the east of the Great River, rays of sunlight began to seep through the jagged fractures atop the mountain range called Sacramento, bringing warmth and brightness to a new day, to the place that once was a village built by a proud, indigenous people, now the town of Socorro.

Most mornings, the cats and early rising humans of the town might see the owner of Blacksmith Bakery, Ted Benjamin, driving on the streets in his shiny and faithfully restored 1947 International delivery wagon, sporting a bright-colored logo painted on its side panels. On this day, even before the rays of sunlight reached the old town Ted was delivering fresh creations that his bakers had crafted earlier that night in the converted stone blacksmith shop at the end of Doc Holiday Lane. Ted’s first delivery was to Poquito’s Café on the plaza.

By seven in the morning, Poquito’s was bustling with customers ordering Ted’s just-delivered creations and other favorites created by the owner and his staff. Such favorites might be huevos rancheros—New Mexico style—and sheepherder’s breakfast, a specialty of the house passed down by his ancestors. Ever popular were papas-con carne, and yes, sopaipillas.

For some customers, the décor of the room seemed to enhance the enjoyment of eating the regional foods served. Poquito had tastefully placed lacquered, terra-cotta-colored wine jars throughout along with wall hangings of black and white photos of snow-capped mountains from the Basque region of Northern Spain. The result was a pleasant old-world atmosphere. On this special morning, all light-blue-tablecloth-covered tables and booths were full.

This special day happened once a year as it had for the past sixty years, and with it came the feeling of fiesta. It was in the air; it was alive with it and seemed to dance with it. Outside, next to Poquito’s Cafe, eighty-foot-tall, grey-barked, centuries-old cottonwood trees lined the Plaza, from which came laughter, shouting, and singing. There, music was playing, hammers were hammering, and dogs were barking.

From the Socorro County Courthouse on the south to the century-old home of Elfego Baca on the north, Court Street was filled with in-and-out-of-state vendors setting up food displays, barbeque ovens, hot dog carts, taco stands, and more. Lining the sidewalks were tables for souvenir sellers, art displays, Indian jewelry, and organic candles along with booths with soaps, golf balls, and T-shirts emblazoned with the name of the day’s sixty-year-old event: Elfego Baca Shoot—Hilton Open.

In the café, heads turned as Poquito escorted a tall young woman with light bronze skin, honey-blondish hair, and teal blue eyes dressed in spring golfing attire. As she passed through the restaurant toward a window booth, customers said, Good morning, Bird, Hi, Miitrai, even "Hello,