6
Yolanda Martinez was tired. It was never easy being a 911 operator, even in a small town like Espanola, New Mexico, but working the night shift was the worst. On weekends and paydays, the call volume built steadily as last call at the bars drew nearer. Drunk and disorderly were the most common calls, although stabbings and shootings happened often enough. Then there were the alcohol-related accidents and the late-night angry spousal confrontations.
But tonight was Monday night. Actually, it was now Tuesday morning, and it was most certainly nobody’s payday. It was one of those nights when even the low-riders who liked to cruise town in their hydraulically enhanced hopping cars could not find the energy to stay out past midnight. Out in front of the police station, where the Los Alamos Highway met up with Paseo de O?ate, only an occasional vehicle rumbled past to break the silence. The place was dead.
That should have been a good thing. But Yolanda’s daughter had stayed home sick from school, and Yolanda had been forced to take care of her until her husband, Roberto, had gotten home from work. She had barely had time to get ready for her shift, grabbing a microwave burrito at the Quick Stop on her way to the police station. Sleep was a distant memory. In the absence of things to do, drowsiness tugged at Yolanda’s eyelids as she sipped at another mug of burnt coffee. It didn’t help that Sergeant Billy Collins was fast asleep a dozen feet away from her, his booted feet propped on the desk at an angle that threatened to send a stack of unfinished police reports fluttering toward the floor. At least he didn’t snore.
As long as she could remember, it had been like this. Some nights so busy and disturbing that she wanted to cry, some nights so dismally boring that she wanted to go start trouble herself, just so someone would call.
When the 911 line rang, it startled her so badly that she jumped. Shaking her head to clear the grogginess, Yolanda answered it before it could ring again.
“Espanola Police Department. What is your emergency?”
The voice that answered her was so heavily accented that it took her several seconds to understand the import of what she was hearing.
“Listen carefully. Do not interrupt me, because I will not say this twice and I will not be on the line long enough for you to trace this call. My name is Abdul Aziz. I am the one your government has been hunting with such utter futility. On this night, only a few minutes from now, I will take something that America, the Great Satan, has been hiding from the rest of humanity under the name of the Rho Project. Are you listening to me?”
There was a pause on the line as Yolanda struggled to simultaneously answer and throw a pencil at Sergeant Collins.
“Yes. I am listening.”
The pause at the other end of the line dragged on for several more seconds before the man continued.
“If you hurry, it is possible that you might get some of your mobile police cruisers to the intersection of Highway 30 and Highway 502 before I have finished my business and departed, but I doubt it. There will be dead bodies, so be prepared. If you are wise, you will have the officers take some blood samples that they do not turn over to your military.
“Inshallah, even Godless swine like you may yet be enlightened. Hurry now. Do not delay.”
“Wait.”
But the phone line went dead as the word left Yolanda’s lips.
“What have you got?” Sergeant Collins’ voice at her shoulder startled her again. Apparently, the man had not been as deeply asleep as she had thought.
By the time she had played back the recording, Billy Collins was already removing a 12-gauge shotgun from the rack and heading toward the door. He paused to yell back over his shoulder, “Get on the horn to Fred and Enrique. They are the closest cruiser, so get them rolling. I’ll meet them on the way. After that, round up every other squad car we have out there and get them all moving that way.”
“What about the state police?”
“Let them know as soon as you have our folks moving, and put in a call to the sheriff. I won’t wait for them though.”
The door slammed behind Billy Collins as Yolanda pressed the switch that activated the radio microphone. As she began speaking, the thought that she might never see Billy alive again tickled the back of her mind.