FOLLOW THE LEADER - Chapter 47

Chapter 47

It turned out that Alfredo not only remembered the day of the storm, he had served Katherine and a friend earlier, that same afternoon.

I showed him Katherine’s picture again.

He nodded twice.

“What did her friend look like?” I asked.

“Like a punk,” he said. “All in black. Dyed blonde hair. Raiders cap on backward. She had one of those snake tattoos. Kind that wraps around your arm. That’s what I remember best.”

Sheena?

“Did you notice anything else?” I asked. “Was she wearing a tee shirt?”

He nodded.

“What was on it?” I persisted.

He had to think about it. “There was a picture on it…”

“Charles Manson?”

“Si.  I think. Him or that singer with the Doors.”

“Jim Morrison,” said Rollins. “Did he have curly hair?”

“No. Straight. Had him a goatee. And crazy eyes. The kind you don’ forget.”

“Then it wasn’t Morrison,” said Rollins.

Alfredo shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

He pointed to Katherine’s picture. “She was all in black, too. We see it a lot here, my friends. Especially with Burning Man.”

Burning Man was an arts festival with a spiritual base and  carnal pleasures that moved from Baker Beach in the city to various desert venues. I didn’t know if it had ever been held in Death Valley. I wondered if Katherine had ever attended.

I said: “I’m sure you’ve heard about the killings in Death Valley.”

His smile vanished.

“Si.’”

“The guy we’re after is a Manson wannabe.”

“You have his picture?”

“Sadly, no.  We think his first name is Jason.”

On the way back to our rooms Rollins said, “Alfred’s got a hell of a memory.”

“That’s his business. Remembering people and what they drank.”

Back in Rollins’ room he dialed up the bar just to show me up.

“Alfredo, this is Mike Rollins again.”

“Hola.”

“Do you remember what the two girls drank that afternoon?”

“Draft beer. In mugs. Don’t ask me what kind, we got all kinds.”

I could see that Rollins was impressed.

“You’ve been great, Alfredo. Muy gracias.”

“De nada.”

Rollins hung up.

“Amazing,” he said.
“No shit.”

I must have been frowning, because he asked “What’s wrong?”

“I need to look at Zack Tyler. His old man is protecting him, along with his supplier. Where was Zack when the Big Blow hit? That punk could have shivved  me that night in my car, done some serious damage. He had skills.”

“Does this mean we’re going home?”

“I’ve had enough of Death Valley,” I said. “Desert was never my thing.”

Rollins came over and we slapped hands.

That night I dreamed that Zack Tyler held a knife to my throat. His face morphed into Manson’s. There was a blurred image of another man standing at the foot of my bed. Somehow I knew it was Jason, and that he had come to watch me die.