The Warren Trading Post Caper (Part Three)

The Warren Trading Post Caper has taught me a valuable lesson. If you’re going to post a serialized story to your blog … finish the thing before you put up the first installment. As I said last week, this tale has taken on a life of its own. The story went from two-parter, to a three-parter, and now to a four-parter. All unintentional, folks.

Last week, we ended the story when Detective Walter Black of the New Mexico State Police confronts Frank Lund and Big Hat after interviewing Lund’s wife, Marlene, who although confused, insists she was abducted by aliens.

                                                                       *****

                                       THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 3)

The investigation seemed to be going nowhere, which was ridiculous. You don’t beat a hole in an adobe wall, haul off a thousand-pound safe, abduct a woman, and leave no clues behind. Detective Black wasn’t doing his job so far as I was concerned.

Of course, Marlene wasn’t being much help. Whenever asked about the ordeal, her eyes went out of focus and she insisted she didn’t remember anything. Black sent her to a state shrink of some kind, but he didn’t help much. In fact, he set me back on my heels. He was skinny – emaciated, really – and had a big head sort of like an alien. One of those aliens from “up there.”

My wife stayed home in Albuquerque for three solid months under the care of a therapist and was making progress … until the phone calls started. I took the first one at three o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Awakened from a sound sleep, I wasn’t too sharp as I fumbled for the phone beside the bed. Silence greeted my slurred “hello.”

“Hello!” I repeated in a firmer voice. “Who’s there? Do you know what time it is?”

Silence.

I sat up on the side of the bed. “Hello! Answer me or go to hell!”

A strange whine came over the line. Faint at first, and then increasingly loud. I slammed the old fashioned Princess phone down with a bang.

“What’s going on? Who was that?” Marlene scooted up against the headboard, the covers held tight against her chest. Two marks like snakebite fangs we’d discovered on her left shoulder after the abduction almost seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. She’d taken to insisting we sleep with the bathroom door open so the nightlight spilled into room.

“Wrong number, I guess. At least nobody spoke.”

“I-it’s them!” Her voice was almost a shriek. “They’re coming for me again.”

“Nonsense. It was some drunk trying to call home.”

The phone rang again. It seemed shriller than usual in the quiet room. Darlene leaned across me and snatched it up.”

“What do you want?” she yelled. “Leave me alone!” Five seconds later she re-cradled the phone and flopped down on the bed in a fetal position.

I spooned up against her. “Who was it? What did they say?”

Her body shook. “It’s them. They want me to go back to the trading post.”

I got out of bed and reached for my robe. “You aren’t going, but I am.”

“No!” The word came out as a wail. “They said me. Alone.”

I grabbed the phone and started dialing the number Detective Black had left me. Marlene snatched the instrument from my hand.

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want that man prying around in my life again. Just hold me, Frank. Make love to me.”

Making love wasn’t my priority right at that moment, but she held onto me so desperately, I couldn’t help but respond. In a few moments, I was thinking of nothing but the handsome woman beneath me responding to my attentions. In an unusually aggressive but very pleasing way.

#####

The eerie phone calls came again the next night. I answered the first and got the whining sound once again. Faint. Loud. Then faint again before the connection was broken. Marlene took the second one, listened momentarily, and then reacted in the same terrified way. Followed by demanding and giving tremendous sexual release.

I called Detective Black from my office the next morning without letting Marlene know what I intended. He questioned me carefully about the dates and times of the calls and promised to get back in touch with me.

The following day, he phoned me at the office.

“Anonymous cell phone,” he said without preamble. “Untraceable, although I can tell you some of the calls came from the vicinity of your home, and others went through cell towers that were consistent with being near the Warren Trading Post.”

“So we’re at a dead end?”

“At present. We can install some equipment at home so you can record the calls. We might be able to tell something from a recording.”

Marlene must have suspected I had contacted Black because she surprised me by putting up only a token resistance to the idea. The very next night after two technicians attached a little device to the bedroom phone, the phone rang at two in the morning. I answered and got the whining noise. A little more aggressive this time. She answered a second call, listened for a moment, and then handed the phone to me. All I caught was a dead receiver, but Black’s little device allowed us to listen to both the whine of my call and a strange, halting, metallic voice on hers that told her to “Come home now.”

“Why won’t they leave me alone? Oh, God! What did I do to deserve this?” She flew into my arms, the terror replaced by want. “Frank, make love to me! Make me forget!”

That night, it was not Frank Lund who made love to his wife. It was his wife who turned into a nymphomaniac siren and wore me plumb out.

*****

To be continued… once again. I can hardly wait to see how it comes out. I still don’t know. Haven’t finished it yet.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Warren Trading Post Caper (Continued)

This thing has taken on a life of its own and demanded a longer telling. The story has turned into a three-parter. Sorry about that. Last week, we ended the story when Frank Lund called the County Sheriff’s Office after finding his wife’s remote trading post in the western part of New Mexico looted and his wife missing.

*****

THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER (Part 2)

The county cops immediately called in the state police, and within an hour a detective by the name of Walter Black drove into the parking lot and got out of his unmarked car. After perfunctory introductions, John and I escorted him inside the trading post where he inspected the gaping hole near the spot where the missing safe had sat. He looked over the scene much more dispassionately than either one of us.

“You say your wife is missing, Mr. Lund?”

I confirmed this fact and said she wasn’t answering her cell phone before I provided a description of Marlene Warren Lund, a five-foot, two, 110-pound blonde with sky blue eyes and fetching dimples. In response to a question, I advised that I had last spoken to her at 5:00 a.m. this morning on the rather disjointed telephone call that sent me racing to the trading post. I had not seen her since the prior Sunday when I left for Albuquerque. I informed the detective  the missing safe was a large container weighing approximately 1000 pounds, big enough to accommodate all of the pawn items the trading post held.

In the midst of his interview, the state’s forensics team arrived, and one of its members pulled Black aside. A few moments later he returned with a quizzical look on his face.

“Either of you know anything about some sort of craft flying in this area last night or early this morning? A helicopter, maybe.”

Both John and I shook our heads. “Don’t know anything about it,” I said.

“You know anyone with a chopper or a small plane?”

Neither of us had personal knowledge of such craft, but John mentioned that the gas plant owned a helicopter. About that time, the head of the forensics team chased us outside. Black warned us not to leave the area, and then went around behind the trading post to take a closer look at the outbuildings. I leaned against the fender of my car and worried about my wife while John took out a can of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. After I declined his offer of one, he lit the crude affair with an old-fashioned wooden match and settled back to wait with me. John wasn’t much of a talker, but somehow his presence was welcome. He was a connection to Marlene’s past and that was comforting.

Black came from around behind the main building talking earnestly on his telephone. As he drew near, it was apparent  he was concentrating on trying to run down the aircraft, or whatever it was, that someone had reported seeing near dawn this morning. Judging from his end of the conversation, things weren’t going well. All anyone had really seen were lights flashing in the general area.

After the detective reentered the trading post, John bestirred himself to speak. “Big Hat ain’t gonna take this too good. He’s gonna come flying when he hears about it. You better get ready.”

I knew all about Big Hat. Or at least the tall, good-looking Indian that hung out under the gigantic Stetson. His name was Charles Menda, but nobody ever called him anything but Big Hat. Even Marlene called him that when they were going together. They’d been an item for a couple of years before we hooked up. As a result, Big Hat wasn’t too kindly disposed toward me.

“You keep that guy away from me, you hear?”

John gave an uneasy chuckle. “I don’t keep him away from nobody. He don’t ask my permission.”

Black came outside and beckoned me over. “Mr. Lund, the Albuquerque Police tell me your wife is at home.”

“At home? And the police are there. Is she all right?”

“Seems to be unharmed. Confused, but unharmed.”

“How did she get there? Her car’s in the garage out back.” Another thought struck. “And why are the police there?”

“I asked them to check the house. The detective I spoke to said she’s confused about what’s happened. Said she seems disoriented.”

“I’ve got to go to her.” I turned to John. “Can you get someone to seal up the hole in the wall?”

Black spoke up. “You stay right where you are. I’m having her brought here.”

“Why? She’ll be better off at home.”

“This is where the crime was committed. So this is where I want her.”

Black was adamant, so I switched from protesting to making arrangements with John for his brother-in-law, who did some construction work on the nearby reservation, to patch the hole in the trading post’s wall after the forensics team turned the building back over to us. After that, I tried to phone the house in Albuquerque, but got no answer. Apparently, Marlene was already on the way.

#####

My wife and the Albuquerque police and Big Hat all got to the trading post at the same time. Marlene got out of the police cruiser and sort of wobbled over to me. When I enfolded her in my arms, she began crying.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re safe.” I noticed Big Hat watching from the cab of his truck.

“It was horrible, Frank. Horrible!”

“What was?”

Black stepped up and stood uncomfortably close. “Mrs. Lund, I’m Detective Walter Black of the State Police. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything until after I interview you. We can go to your living quarters at the rear of the store where you’ll be more comfortable.”

I insisted I was going with them, but Black was just as insistent that I wasn’t. He and his badge outweighed me and my wedding license. They entered the building without me.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Big Hat got out of a blue Dodge Ram pickup outfitted with a host of steel boxes. He was a mechanic who apparently hauled his tools around with him.

That huge brown Stetson floating toward me atop a lean, six-two Indian seemed to exude suppressed violence. “Lund, I find out you had anything to do with this, I’ll take you down personally.”

I drew up to my full five foot-nine height and poked a finger at him. “She’s my wife, Big Hat, and I’ll thank you to keep out of our business.”

“She might be your wife, but she’s my friend. What’s going on? Tell me right now.”

John stepped between us. “Take it easy, man. We don’t none of us know what this is all about.” He shrugged. “Other than taking out the west wall of the post and hauling off a big safe. Oh, yeah, and some lights hovering around somewhere about dawn this morning.”

We spent fifteen minutes arguing and making threats while John patiently filled Big Hat in on what little we knew. After that, a sullen silence grew as we waited another three-quarters of an hour until Black emerged from the post. Marlene wasn’t with him. Big Hat and I both started for the door.

“Hold on there,” the detective said. “Who’re you?” He addressed the Indian.

“My name’s Charles Menda, and Marlene Warren is a friend of mine.”

I forgot for the moment he was bigger and tougher than I was. “Marlene Lund, you lunkhead,”

He ignored me. “What did Marlene tell you?”

Black paused for a moment before answering. “That she was abducted.”

“Abducted,” I said. “Abducted by who?”

The detective speared me with his eyes. “Aliens.”

“You mean Mexicans?” Big Hat asked.

Brown lifted a finger skyward. “No, I mean aliens.”

*****

To be continued…again. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back one more time.

As always, thanks for reading. And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Warren Trading Post Caper

How about another short story today? Unlike last week’s story, this one is a contemporary tale told in two parts.

*****

THE WARREN TRADING POST CAPER

Blue skies. Gently rolling terrain. Purple mountains in the distance. Sounds like paradise, right? Not when a merciless sun boils tar right out of the pavement. I passed an endless stream of road kill, one a rattlesnake that appeared to have become mired in the goo and died out of desperation. I felt like that reptile as my tires struggled free of oozing oil with each turn of the wheels. The air conditioner in my Camaro struggled to keep the temperature at an acceptable level even though it was only eight in the morning.

My race across this desert terrain had started with a telephone call at five o’clock this morning. Marlene’s voice had sounded desperate. Frantic, actually. I couldn’t quite make out what the problem was before the uncertain connection was broken, and I was left to stare into a dead telephone. She had called from the little store her parents, Mike and Evelyn Warren, left her following their tragic automobile accident last year.

I had encouraged her to sell the establishment, but she had been raised in that trading post out in the middle of the western New Mexico desert. So sentimentalism triumphed over good sense. At least in my opinion. I worked full time for an engineering firm in Albuquerque and was only able to make the hundred-mile drive to Warren Trading Post on weekends. I had thought she would soon tired of the loneliness, but she seemed to thrive on it. And I had to admit our reunions every five days were something to look forward to. She was comfortable; I was frustrated.

I topped a rise on a surviving stretch of old Route 66 and spotted the trading post on the south side of the two-lane highway about a mile ahead. A pickup turned into the store as I watched. I tromped on the accelerator and managed to lurch into the parking area just as an Indian I recognized as John Benchley, tried the door. It appeared to be locked. John, a friend of my wife’s since childhood, beat on the door and shouted for Marlene. He turned as I slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car.

“Hi, Frank. You got any idea what’s going on? Marlene ain’t opened up yet.”

We both knew my wife never opened later than 7:00 a.m. in order to serve coffee and donuts to a few regular customers – most of them local area Navajos – on their way to work at the natural gas processing plant 20 miles to the south. “No idea, John. I got a frantic call at five o’clock, but we were cut off. I got here as fast as I could.”

I fumbled with my keys and managed to get the door open. As I entered calling for my wife, an ominous silence shouted back at me. Both of us came to an abrupt halt and gaped at the sight confronting us. A portion of the western wall of the trading post was gone. A hole the size of a small truck gave us a perfect view of the sand outside the building.

“Jesus! What the hell happened here?” John asked. “What could take out a three-foot adobe wall like that?”

“And where in the hell is my wife?”

I shouted her name as I ran through the store to the living quarters at the rear. After a thorough search of the entire premises, including the two small building behind the post, revealed no trace of Marlene, I discovered John searching the ground outside the wrecked wall.

“Whoever or whatever it was raked and swept the area clear. I can’t find nothing but a faint track over here where they got careless. Maybe a semi tire print, but maybe not. Damn, Frank, did you notice the big safe holding all the pawn goods is missing?”

“So is Marlene.” I paused a beat. “What do you mean, whatever?”

“There was doings out here last night.”

“What doings?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. Lights. Things a man don’t look at too close.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just saying …”

“I don’t have time for stories about witchcraft, man. Marlene's missing! I’m gonna call in the County Mounties.”

*****

To be continued. What do you think? Witchcraft? New Mexico's "Alien" country, you know. Time will tell. Hope it’s been interesting enough to draw you back next week.

As always, thanks for reading. Read, read, read! Please.

And take a look around the blog site while you’re here.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.