by Thomas Zigal
“Sneak needs me tonight. I haven’t fed him all day. He never goes to sleep without me,” the boy declared. “And I can’t leave my rock collection at home unprotected now that my grandpa is dead.”
“We can pick up everything in the morning,” Kurt assured him. “Your clothes, your pets. Anything you want.”
“If you drive me up there right now I can jump out and run in and get them. I promise I’ll be fast.”
Kurt sighed. “It’s pretty late, my man. You can make it without them for one night, can’t you? I give you my word we’ll pick them up first thing in the morning.”
He felt the little boy’s courage cave in, his body shudder with quick tears. “I gotta go home, Coach,” he pleaded, his voice high and whimpery. “I can’t leave Sneak alone tonight.”
Kurt held him close. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he said, rocking him, “it’s okay. I’ll go get them for you. You just tell me where they are.”
Chapter twelve
Ned Carr owned a second mine, the Lone Ute, and had raised his family in a nearby cabin on the backside of Aspen Mountain, a designated wilderness area off limits to deep-powder skiers and hunters and ORVS, the terrain as obscure and uncharted as the dark side of the moon. To reach the remote site, a traveler had to drive west out of town and circle around behind the mountain, climbing the steep Midnight Mine Road above Castle Creek.
It could be worse, Kurt thought, his tires churning sand as the Jeep swerved onto Ned’s access road. Somewhere at this very moment in America a father is rushing his child’s forgotten Barney blanket through ribbons of honking freeway traffic in the dark, pouring rain. It could be worse.
He gazed out over the black basin below, 30,000 acres of invisible woodlands without a flicker of light, finding it difficult to imagine that just over the peak to the north lay a glittering resort. The Willys’s single intact headbeam swept across a graveyard of charred spruce stumps in a shallow pit where the miners had torched their bulldozer debris. Crusts of dirty snow still survived under the trees. Steering was less arduous on this bedrock stretch Ned had plowed through the forest to his property line, a half mile of old Jeep trail the miner had used without challenge for nearly fifty years, until last summer, when he’d decided to widen and blacktop the route and dig drainage culverts. With the exception of one doddering U.S. magistrate in Denver, no one in the entire state believed that Ned Carr’s shoestring enterprise required an asphalt road through sensitive national forest to accommodate more truck-hauling for his Lone Ute Mine.
Kurt soon came upon a dump truck and a heavily padlocked road grader parked side by side, blocking the right-of-way where their construction had advanced. A crudely lettered sign on the grader’s door said WARNING! DO NOT TOUCH! MACHINES RIGED TO KILL. He was forced to squeeze the Jeep through a narrow passage between the back tires of the long spindly grader and a massive outcropping of dolomite. Driving another quarter mile over smooth blacktop, he eventually reached the chain-secured gate marked PROPERTY OF CARR MINING COMPANY, NO TRESPASING and stopped to let his headlight reveal the gloomy scene beyond the fence. The Carr cabin was dark and cheerless. The rusting, corrugated-tin headframe of the Lone Ute Mine loomed in the murky shadows another fifty yards beyond.
Hadn’t Muffin sent deputies out here to have a look around after the Ajax explosion? Why wasn’t someone assigned to watch this place overnight?
Kurt grabbed a flashlight from his glove compartment and left the engine running, the high beam blazing. He spat on the gate, tossed a handful of sand against it, raked a finger across the iron-pipe bars, testing for an electric current. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be knocked to his knees, he crawled over the top and jogged toward the cabin.
When Kurt was a boy the local conservationists, two or three odd bird-watchers with sherry in their flasks, had incited a tame philosophical debate over Ned’s right to homestead here in a national forest and raise his children on public land. But in the early ’60s a new congressional bill called the Mining Claim Occupancy Act had settled the issue decisively. Because he’d lived next to his mine for more than seven years, Ned was allowed complete title to his house and five surrounding acres. One final law-book anachronism from the Old West before the longhairs arrived in their earth sandals.
Kurt didn’t know what to expect once he’d reached the creaking front porch. He was relieved when the door latch gave way without effort and he didn’t have to break in. It was pitch black inside and cold, a peculiar farmhouse brew of kerosene and yeasty bread and a workingman’s sweat. His flashlight beam danced over the cedar floorboards as he searched the wall for a switch. He knew that Ned had installed an electric generator some time ago but he was having no luck finding a wall plate. To hell with it, he thought, giving up. Five minutes and I’m gone.
He followed his own light into a small central room cramped with a woodstove and cane-bottom chairs and an old café booth Ned had acquired from Tink Tarver, the family dining table. The floor was matted down with animal-pelt rugs, beaver and raccoon and red fox. Mrs. Carr had died twenty years ago and the decor, if it could be called that, remained as she had kept things, a collection of family photographs and blue bottles and macrame wall hangings, the usual embroidered homespun wisdom. God Bless This Mess. Don’t Laugh, It’s Paid For. It was nearly impossible to imagine their two children, Marie and Nathan, doing schoolwork for twelve years in such a claustrophobic environment.
He made his way into Hunter’s bedroom, the roof-slanted space where the boy’s mother and uncle had shared a childhood before him, and as the flashlight fluttered over objects in the dark enclosure, Kurt was surprised to discover a cozy arrangement that duplicated Lennon’s own room at home. Ned had once asked Kurt for a list of the things that Lennon liked most, his favorite toys and books and wall decorations, and it now appeared as if Hunter and his grandpa had set about replicating the list. The beam illuminated wall posters of Disney movies and rock stars, a shelf full of kids’ books, plastic mutants spread across the floor. Kurt was deeply touched. Despite his age and temperament, the old man had tried his best to be a good parent.
The terrarium was an easy find. Kurt shined the light on Sneak the Snake to make sure he was asleep beneath his grass and rocks. There was a handscrawled note taped to the lid, Ned’s unique brand of spelling: Hi, Buster Brown. I love you and yor snake. Granpa. It might have been written early this morning, shortly before Ned had left for the Ajax Mine.
The cigar box that housed Hunter’s rock collection was hidden under the bed exactly where the boy had said to look. Kurt shook the box and opened it, admiring the selection of quartz and feldspar and mica, and a few stones he couldn’t identify.
He was slowly retracing his steps to the front door, the terrarium and cigar box stacked against his chest, when he thought he heard a board creak somewhere in the cabin. He froze instantly and clicked off the flashlight. Blood pulsed in his ears. He thought he detected movement, another footstep, and knelt down quietly, setting the pile on the floor. Dumbshit, he cursed himself, irritated for not bringing his .45 from the Jeep. Irritated that the pepper-spray tube in his pocket was empty.
The sound had come from the old man’s bedroom twenty feet away. Kurt lowered his shoulders and slipped quickly through the darkness, the unlit flashlight his only weapon. Squatting back on his heels, he waited by the bedroom door but heard only an old cabin groaning under its own weight in the cold wind. He laughed at himself and stood up, switching on the flashlight, directing the beam into Ned’s messy room.
He had taken only three short steps when a blow knocked the light from his hand and he was shoved hard against the wall, his head slamming Sheetrock. A dark figure skirted past him and Kurt lunged wildly for his legs, catching an ankle. The intruder hit the cedar floor with a resounding whump. Kurt pounced on him quickly, but the man proved strong and deft, whoever he was, breaking Kurt’s hold with a wrestler’s grace. They rolled on the floor in the darkness and Kurt grabbed at the man’s throat, ripping loose some shirt. He thoug
ht he had him until two rapid jabs struck his bruised sternum, curling Kurt like a fetus, the pain so intense he almost passed out. Doubled over and moaning, he watched the man bang out the cabin door and dash across the yard toward the woods, a swift, solid body fleeing through the white haze of Jeep light, his ponytail bouncing as he ran.
Kurt was clutching something in his hand. He struggled to his feet and retrieved the flashlight from the bedroom floor. It wasn’t a piece of shirt but an ornament of some kind. A beaded choker, Native American, six bird bones the size of Kurt’s little finger.
He found a wall phone in the kitchen beside an ancient cupboard and dialed the Sheriff’s Department. The night dispatcher told him that Muffin hadn’t returned from the airport.
“Kevin, I’ve just had an altercation up here at Ned Carr’s cabin,” Kurt said, holding his chest. “Somebody broke in. Why the hell wasn’t there a deputy watching the place?”
“I don’t know, Kurt. Triage, I guess. Was it a priority?”
“Triage my ass,” Kurt said. The department was still treating Ned’s death as an innocent mishap. “Assault on a police officer and possible burglary. Make it a priority.” He could hear his voice gain heat, ratchet into a higher state of annoyance. “Send two deputies code three. I don’t have all night. I’ve got to bring a child his pet snake before bedtime.”
The dispatcher hesitated. “Snake, sir?”
“Did I stutter, Kevin?”
“Sorry, sir.” Another pause. “I didn’t realize you were back on duty.”
Chapter thirteen
Daylight streamed through the chalet windows. He shook Meg’s shoulder gently. “Good morning,” he whispered.
“What time is it?” she asked in a deep, sleepy voice, her eyes still shut. “Are the boys awake?”
“Not yet, so let’s not make any noise,” he said, kneeling beside her. “I think I remember how you like it.”
She unfurled the blanket, sat up, and took the cup of coffee. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts, John Prine on tour.
“How was it?” he asked, pressing the couch springs.
She shrugged. “How well I remember,” she said, scraping film off her lips with a fingernail, taking a sip from the mug.
“You can have the bed tonight.”
“Mmm, this is good.” Her eyes blinked over the coffee steam. “The boys talked about going for a hike on the Rio Grande Trail this morning. Want to come along?”
“I’d love to but I’ve got some work to do.” He truly didn’t want to spoil the moment with cop talk. “How long can you stay with us?”
She thought it over. “Maybe another night. But we need to discuss what we’re going to do, Kurt. Do we have a plan?”
Their weekly arrangement called for her to pick up Lennon after school on Friday and bring him back home Sunday morning. Having Hunter would complicate matters.
“Do you have to get permission from what’s his name, your Buddhist guru, to stay a few days?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“I’d hate to see you get grounded by the man.”
She blew on the coffee and smiled coyly. She knew he was digging for something, prying into the details of her private life. He was curious about that Zen master she lived with.
“Am I still dreaming,” she asked, closing her eyes, “or do I smell blueberry pancakes?” When they were married she had always made a fuss over his Saturday morning pancakes.
“Ready for a stack?” he asked, rising from the couch to check the griddle.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to impress me.”
The kitchen was separated from the living room by a tiled counter with tall barstools. Kurt flipped the pancakes and speed-dialed Corky Marcus. He thought he heard the boys stirring in Lennon’s bedroom.
“Hey, Corky, are you up, man?”
“It’s Saturday morning, Kurt,” said the weary attorney, “which means the inmates have been awake since dawn, banging their spoons against the bars.” He had three boys by this marriage—six, eight, and ten years old. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but when I called last night the woman who answered your phone sounded suspiciously like Meg.”
“Mm-hmm,” Kurt said, watching Meg slide on her jeans. The Zen life had been good to her body. She was in better shape than a thirty-year-old. “She’s helping out with the boys.”
“I see,” Corky said. He and his wife, Carole, had gone through the birthing course with Kurt and Meg, and now Lennon and Josh Marcus were in the same kindergarten class. Corky had been Kurt’s attorney during the divorce. “Any chance you two might, you know—”
“Not much.”
Lennon called out from the bedroom in a giggling singsong. “Mommm, oh, Mommmm! Are you still heeere?”
The two boys screeched, and then Hunter sang out, “Come and fiiind us, Missus Coooach!”
There was a proud smile that Meg and Kurt had always exchanged when Lennon did something adorable as a baby, and she gave him that smile now, mixed with a glimmer of regret. The question lingered between them still. Should we have tried harder? Listen to what’s at stake. He returned the smile, conflicted, ambivalent, knowing how difficult it had been for her to live without Lennon.
“We’re already off to the races here at chez famille,” Corky said. “If my daily printout is correct, we’ve got one hockey, one baseball, and one birthday party at the Nature Center.” He sighed. “Can we get together about four in my office to look at Ned’s will? If I’m still registering a pulse.”
“Sure,” Kurt said. “I’ll furnish the caffeine.”
Corky muffled the phone and shouted something at one of his kids, then returned. “How is Hunter handling it?”
“So far, not bad. I’ve got Dr. Hales on the case.”
Corky paused. “I don’t know, Kurt. Something weird was going on with Ned,” he said. “After school on Thursday he brings Hunter over to my car and asks if the boy can spend the night with Josh. No explanation offered. He looked stressed, but then who could ever tell with Ned? I thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well. The next morning he’s dead.”
Kurt watched Meg tiptoe in her bare feet to Lennon’s door and peek in. The boys were giggling, hiding somewhere in the room.
“Last week he calls me at the office and says he wants to look over his will, make some changes. It doesn’t take a Mensa certificate to figure out Ned was expecting something bad to happen. Maybe, God forbid, at his own hand.”
Kurt spooned pancake batter into three pools on the hot griddle. “You can rule out suicide,” he said, wondering again what the intruder was after in Ned’s dark cabin. “Somebody murdered him.”
Chapter fourteen
Leighton F. Lamar’s “trophy home,” as the real estate ads referred to the mansion, was 11,000 square feet of native stone and redwood beams perched conspicuously on the boundary of Little Nell, Aspen’s most populated ski slope. When the grand residence was under construction, the local newspaper had made inquiries to the county commissioners, the zoning board, and the U.S. Forest Service, but no one could adequately explain how the communications tycoon had obtained permission to build in a major recreation area. Kurt knew that the mountain was a complex checkerboard of valid mine patents dating back to 1879 and public land preserved from development through various forest reserve acts; but it came as no surprise that Lamar had found his way around the petty laws that governed ordinary mortals. The man had friends in all the right places.
When Kurt arrived in his Willys an hour before noon, there were three vehicles parked in the Lamars’ pea-gravel lot—a Jeep Cherokee, a Land-Rover, and a Suburban, their satin finishes gleaming in the morning sunlight. He got out and approached the wrought-iron gate on foot, noticing a tall man standing inside the courtyard, smoking a cigarette, one shoe resting on the rim of a mosaic fountain. Instead of buzzing the intercom, Kurt waved him over, and as the man strode across the flagstones, moving toward him with a perceptible arrogance in his beari
ng, Kurt realized he knew this man and his walk and that defiant smirk that passed for a smile.
“Hello, Muller,” the man said, flipping his cigarette butt between the gate bars. “It’s been a while.”
“Seems like only yesterday,” Kurt said. “Enjoying your retirement, Staggs? I heard you were opening limo doors for Hollywood drugheads.”
Staggs smiled darkly. “High-profile security,” he said with an uncharacteristic measure of self-mockery. “What brings you up to the big house? You have business with the Lamars?”
“I’m here about a murder,” Kurt said. “You remember how that works, don’t you, Staggs? You were pretty good at it.”
When Neal Staggs was a high-ranking FBI agent out of Denver he had hounded Kurt and the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Department for four long years, monitoring the department’s activities, wiretapping their phones, trying to link the Aspen office to drug dealing and murder. But last summer Staggs had stepped over the line when he’d led a swat team against a farmhouse of migrant workers downvalley, killing three innocent people, using the raid as a cover-up for a suspicious Bureau protection program. Kurt had been the one who’d exposed Staggs’s misconduct, and as a result the agent was forced into early retirement after twenty-five years of service. Kurt had heard rumors that Staggs had become a special investigator for VIProtex International, security guardians of America’s pampered VIPs, but he’d never expected to see him again in Aspen.
“I have an appointment with Lee Lamar,” Kurt said, pushing the button on the intercom box attached to the gate. He studied the man’s groomed gray hair and Marlboro looks, the Patagonia carry-all vest and new Timberland puddle stompers, thinking that Staggs should be standing behind the bars of a federal cell instead of pulling down a six-figure salary as a designer security cop.
“There’s been a change of plans this morning,” Staggs said. “A minor emergency. You may have to take a rain check.”
