J. Jance - Minor in possession

I retrieved my most recent freebie Alamo map from the dead Beretta and read the bar news for myself. Nogales, a town which looked as though it might be big enough to have its own hospital, was a good twenty miles away, but the faint gray lines leading to it were the same ones we were already on. In my estimation that indicated dirt tracks, not roads. Sierra Vista appeared to be much closer, but only as the crow flies, and to get there we would have to cross back over Montezuma Pass.

In the case, the vehicle situation was downright hopeless. Only one of the three wrecked cars-the Trooper-seemed potentially driveable, and that was only if we could somehow manage to tip it over and get it back on its feet.

Even then, I couldn't see how we'd make do since our current tour group included seven passengers, four of whom were wounded and three of whom were prisoners. Nice bunch.

After a brief consultation with Guy, we decided to try to right the Trooper. That wasn't such a crazy idea once we discovered that the Blazer came complete with a winch. With Rhonda and me doing the moving and with Guy Owens sitting guard with the remaining assault rifle, we removed Paco and Tony from the Trooper and fastened them to the Beretta. Paco was still dead to the world, and Tony didn't offer any resistance. He was still so pissed at Monty leaving him that he seemed to have abandoned all thought of getting away in favor of getting even.

Rhonda managed to start the Blazer and maneuver the limping hulk into position. We were just beginning to hook up the winch cable when Guy Owens alerted us to look up the road, where a swirl of dust announced the swift approach of an oncoming vehicle.

I looked at the carnage around us, broken cars and bound and battered people, and wondered if anyone would believe our story. If some local rancher happened on the scene, would he take time to listen, or would he shoot first and ask question later?

The vehicle turned out to be an ugly yellow Forest Service Suburban driven by an earnest young man in a brown uniform. I've never been so happy to see an untried, beardless youth in my life.

He stopped the van next to the wrecked Beretta and got out, moving forward uncertainly. As soon as he saw the weapon in Guy Owens' hands, he stopped short and began to scuttle back toward his truck.

"Wait," I called. "Please. We need your help. "People are injured."

He checked his headlong flight, but only barely. He ducked his head and cleared his throat before he spoke as if he was having trouble swallowing.

"Looks like you're having a little difficulty here," he croaked.

"As a matter of fact, we are," I said. "I'm a police officer. You wouldn't happen to have a radio in that thing, would you?"

"Yes. What's the problem? Are these guys wetbacks or what? Do you need me to call the border patrol?" Now that he had found his voice he spat out the questions one after another without waiting to hear any answers.

"Actually, there's a whole catalog of calls to be made," I said. "Start with the nearest hospital, the local sheriff's department, and the F.B.I. And when you finish with them, you should probably call a tow truck."

"The hospital in Sierra Vista?" our rescuer faltered.

"No, not that one," Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens interrupted from his seat on the ground several feet away. "Call Colonel Miler at the base hospital on post. Tell Joe, if one's available, to send a chopper for a dust-off."

"A what?" the beardless youth stammered.

All I can say is he must have been a babe in arms during the Vietnam War. The term mystified him.

"A Med-evac helicopter," Guy grumbled in explanation. "My name's Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. Give him our location. Tell him it's for me and Michelle. Joe'll handle the rest."

What followed could easily have passed for a mini-convention of local law enforcement personnel. Guy and Michelle Owens were already loaded into the helicopter and on their way to Raymond W. Bliss Army community Hospital at Fort Huachuca before the first patrol car arrived, bringing a Santa Cruz County deputy who had come across the valley from some place called Patagonia.

Next a Border Patrol van showed up, not because they were summoned, but because they had been on their way. One of their informants had notified them that something unusual might be going on up in the pass. They had been coming to check that rumor out when they heard the series of emergency radio communications from the Forest Service Suburban.

Two ambulances, an enthusiastic D.E.A. officer, and a tow truck arrived from Nogales almost simultaneously, followed closely by two F.B. I agents summoned from Tucson who disembarked from another helicopter and immediately took charge.

Time and again Rhonda and I explained what had happened as far as we knew. All three of the prisoners seemed to be a more-or-less known quantity to the D.E.A. guy, who was beside himself with joy at the idea of having al three of them in custody.

According to him, Paco and Tony each had long rap sheets. Monty, presumably a much bigger fish, had never before been nailed, although both his existence and his name had long been rumored in drug-dealing circles.

What seemed to puzzle everyone concerned was why guys who were basically successful drug runners would suddenly involve themselves in the much less lucrative and potentially far riskier crime of kidnapping. It wasn't logical. I certainly couldn't shed any light on that topic, and the prisoners didn't either.

With everyone else deciding who should go where and how it should all be accomplished, there was little or nothing for Rhonda and me to do but sit in the background, huddle under ambulance blankets, try to keep warm, and watch the three-ring circus unfold around us.

"You know that. 38 I gave you earlier?" I asked her in careful undertone when we were alone.

"Yes. What about It?"

"So far it hasn't been fired, right?"

"Right."

"So how about if I make you a gift of it? I don't want any of these hotshots getting me on a concealed weapons charge."

"What about me?" Rhonda asked.

"You're an artist, not a cop. People expect artists to do crazy things."

She nodded and laughed. "Thanks for the present," she added. "Remind me to return the favor."

The sun had gone down and it was becoming increasingly chilly when one of the tow-truck drivers-there were now three separate tow trucks on the scene-came looking for us.

"You J. P. Beaumont?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I called Alamo," he said, almost apologetically, "you know, to see where they wanted me to tow the Beretta. Someone from there is on the radio. They want to talk to you."

I'll just bet they do, I thought, as he led me to his truck and handed me the microphone. I pushed down the switch. "This is J.P. Beaumont. Over," I said.

"Mr. Beaumont?"

"Yes. Over."

It was woman's voice, controlled but furious. "My name is Lucille Radonovich, District manager for Alamo Rent A Car."

"What can I do for you, Ms. Radonovich? Over." I tried to sound reassuring, engaging, casual. It didn't work.

"You are a dangerous man, Mr. Beaumont," she declared.

"Look," I said, reasonably, "I took the extra collision insurance you sold me. Ten dollars a day. Everything's fine, right? Over."

Lucille Radonovich was not to be dissuaded. "Mr. Beaumont, everything is not fine. You may have taken the additional insurance, but it may or may not be valid depending on the exact geographical location of accident."

"It wasn't an accident," I interrupted helpfully. "That guy shot it with a Colt. 45. On purpose. Over."

She continued, as though I hadn't spoken. "Mr. Beaumont, I have been directed to tell you to turn your keys over to our representative, the tow-truck driver. Immediately. Is that clear?"