Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7)
Page 15
“Good. Honestly, we’ve never had a problem with trespassers before.”
“Maybe it’s all connected,” Barnes said.
“Sounds reasonable.” Decker nodded. “Feels like too much of a coincidence that we’d run across those two up there right now, after all that’s happened, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I.” Barnes glanced toward Decker. “You going to be around for a while?”
“Yup.”
“Great. I’m going to find out who owns that truck. I’ll let you know as soon as I have the results.” Barnes headed toward the stairs.
When he was gone, Robyn turned to Decker. “And what are you planning to do next?”
“Actually, I was hoping to have a chat with you,” Decker replied. “I was wondering if you can tell me a little more about the town and its history.”
“Sure,” Robyn agreed. “Do you think there might be a connection to the attacks?”
“I have a hunch that whatever is in that mine, has been around a lot longer than the last few days.” Decker glanced toward the saloon bar. “Why don’t we talk in there, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble.” Robyn moved toward the door. “It will be good practice, actually. When this place officially opens to the public, we’re going to need a tour guide, and since we don’t have much money, you can guess who that’s going to be.”
“You?”
“Yes indeed. So, you’re actually helping me out too.”
“I always like to be of help,” Decker said, and followed Robyn into the saloon.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When he reached the penthouse suite atop the Prospectors Paradise Hotel, Harlan went straight to the desk in his office, upon which his ancestor’s journal lay. He sat down, then reached out and touched it. The leather binding was coarse beneath his fingers. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of awe. This little book had survived so much to end up with Harlan. His great-great-grandfather had started the Journal when he left New York City to find his fortune out West. He made regular entries, detailing the hardships of a prospector’s life in 1800s America. It was a fascinating historical document in its own right, but more than that, the unassuming leather-bound volume provided a roadmap through Harlan’s current predicament. If the final entries in the Journal were correct, and not merely the fevered rantings of an insane man, then a fortune in gold waited for Harlan inside the Ghost Canyon Mine.
The irony was not lost on him. While he struggled to make ends meet and keep the casino afloat, eventually resorting to a deal with the devil, this journal had sat upon his office shelf, just waiting to be taken seriously. And maybe Harlan would have given it a second glance, if it weren’t for his preconceived notions hardened through childhood that it was nothing more than the frantic scribblings of a lunatic. After all, who in their right mind would think that monsters were real, or that a vast geological treasure lay undiscovered to this day beneath the mountains south of Las Vegas. His belief that the Journal’s contents were mostly nonsense had come from his old man, who had inherited the same sentiment from his own father. Harlan had never forgotten the stories contained within the Journal, because they made such an impression on him as a kid. Which was why his thoughts turned to those journal entries when he saw the news report detailing the deaths in the mine.
Harlan opened the Journal and thumbed through the pages until he came to the relevant section. The book had deteriorated over the years, with heavy foxing. The glue binding the spine had become brittle, and some pages had detached and were now loose. The writing was hard to read. Once black, it had turned a rusty brown thanks to the iron gall ink so prevalent at the time.
But Harlan wasn’t interested in the pages of untidy, scrawled handwriting. What he wanted lay folded between the pages. A larger sheet of loose-leaf paper, itself showing signs of age. He removed it carefully and laid it out on the desk, careful not to damage the fragile document.
Unfolded, it was many times the size of the journal within which it had been stored. Harlan hunched over it. It was one of several maps of the Ghost Canyon Mine contained within the Journal, and by far the most complete. Harlan suspected it was also the final one drawn by his ancestor, Travis Biggs, before the man went missing. It showed a labyrinth of tunnels that ran for miles. Some connected with each other, while others were dead ends. A cross-sectional view drawn beneath the main map showed the mine laid out on three distinct levels.
The map didn’t explicitly indicate where the alleged untapped gold deposit was within the mine system—Travis Biggs was not that stupid—but Harlan thought he’d figured it out already from the scribbled entries in the journal itself. What he was looking for right now was another entrance close enough to the gold to snag samples, while being far enough from Haley and those FBI agents to do so undetected. He already knew that the untapped lode, if his hunch was correct, was a good distance from the entrance they had visited earlier, so it stood to reason there would be another adit, or even a ventilation shaft. And when he worked his way back from the presumed location of the gold, he came across it. Just as he thought, there was a shaft running at a low incline from the surface on the other side of the canyon. It would be a bumpy ride to get there, even in Wagner’s truck, but worth it. Now all he needed to do was make copies of the map—he didn’t want to ruin the original—for the men Wagner Mitchell was hopefully rounding up right at this moment.
He felt a surge of optimism.
If all went well, his troubles would be over by day’s end. He stood and went to the living room, poured himself a celebratory drink, which he polished off in one big gulp. He was about to pour a second, when there was a knock at the door.
Wagner Mitchell stood on the other side.
“All done, boss,” he said, stepping into the penthouse. “I found a pair of suitable candidates.”
“Expendable?” Harlan smiled. Everything was falling into place.
“Both here illegally. No family in the US. Came across the border last month in the back of a truck. I bet they’re not even using their real names.”
“Perfect.” Harlan went back to the living room and poured himself another drink.
“You figure out how we’re going to get in, yet?”
Harlan nodded. “There’s a map on my desk. Take it down to the administration office and make copies.”
“Right.” Wagner turned to follow Harlan’s orders.
“And be careful with it. It’s really old. Fragile. I don’t want it damaged.”
“Sure thing.” Wagner turned back to Harlan. “When do you want to go up to the mine?”
“As soon as possible. Make those copies first, and then we’ll leave.”
Wagner nodded.
“When you’re done with the map, bring it straight back up here.”
“Anything else?”
“Make sure the men have tools. Pickaxes would be best. Flashlights too.”
“On it.” Wagner moved to leave, but then stopped. “I hope you’re right about all this, Harlan.”
“Me too,” Wagner replied. “Because I’ve kind of grown attached to my kneecaps, and I’d like to keep them.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Decker was stumped. Robyn’s account of the town’s history, fascinating as it was, did nothing to shed light upon what was killing people inside the mine. When she left after forty-five minutes to check on the construction crew, who had now moved on to the hotel’s third floor, he stayed on in the saloon. He sat on a barstool and stared absentmindedly into the smoky antique mirrors lining the bar back. After a few minutes he caught a movement in the reflection and turned to see Carlton enter clutching a bottle of bourbon.
“What are you doing here?” The old man asked with a scowl. “Shouldn’t you be running around looking for the monster?”
“Bit early in the day for the hard stuff, don’t you think?” Decker shot back, eyeing the liquor bottle clutched in Carlton’s gnarly fingers.
“Your choice to live here, surely?” Decker watched the old man twist the cap off the bottle, then reach over and grab a glass. “You could’ve gone somewhere else.”
“Hardly. Someone had to stay here and look after this place, and it wasn’t going to be either of my brothers. They were too busy with their fancy careers and families.” Carlton poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. “They wouldn’t sell the place either. Said it had sentimental value, even though neither of them ever bothered to come here.”
“And does it?”
“Does it what?” Carlton asked.
“Have sentimental value?”
“Hardly. It’s a big fat mistake, more like.”
“Why do you say that?” Decker asked.
“Didn’t Robyn just tell you the history of the place? I heard the two of you when I came over here. Thought I’d wait outside until you were done.”
“She did.”
“Then you know how the town came to be in our family.”
Decker nodded. “Your grandfather came out here to work on the Hoover Dam back in the 1930s. He came across the place and fell in love with the town, so he bought the land.”
“That’s the romantic version. The reality was different. My grandfather did come to work on the Boulder Dam, as they called it at the time. But he didn’t fall in love with this land. When the Federal Government erected Boulder City to house the workers, he realized this ghost town wasn’t far away. By then, gambling was legalized. He figured he could capitalize by building a town full of casinos and loose women right here where you’re sitting.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Obviously. The Federal Government wasn’t too keen on its workers gambling and carousing and did all they could to curtail it. It was during prohibition after all. My grandfather couldn’t find any backers for his idea, and he didn’t have the money to do it himself. He’d spent every dime buying this dusty scrap of scorched earth. Of course, it didn’t help that the mob had moved in and were putting their money into Fremont Street.”
“What happened after that?”
“What do you think happened?” Carlton sipped his drink and observed Decker with beady eyes. “My grandfather was a failure. Worse than that, he was broke. He ended up going back to Chicago, where he was born, and left the town to rot and ruin. Died without ever stepping foot in the place again.”
“Then how did you end up here?” Decker asked.
“I grew up hearing stories about the town. When I was old enough, I came out to Vegas and got a job in one of the new hotels on the Strip. Figured I’d save my money and build a house out here. As you can see, I didn’t. I ended up fixing one of the old shacks and I’ve been living here ever since. It’ll be going on five decades next year.”
“That’s a long time,” Decker said. “You must know a lot about the area.”
“I know some.” Carlton gulped the last of his whiskey and poured another. He didn’t offer Decker a drink. “More than Robyn, that’s for sure.”
“Great,” Decker said. He took his phone out and pulled up an image of the three mummified prospectors the geologist had found huddled deep in the mine. He stood and approached Carlton, holding the phone out so the old man could see it. “Did you know there were bodies in the mine?”
“How would I know that?” Carlton studied the image, scratching his fingers across the gray stubble lining his chin. “First I heard of it was when that geologist ran back here screaming blue murder.”
“You’d never been inside the mine?”
“Never. The entrance was blasted back around the time the town was originally abandoned. Local legend claims they did it because they thought the mine was haunted, but the truth is, it was tapped out and dangerous.”
“What about this?” Decker brought up another photo. An enlargement of the strange symbol scratched in the earth near the dead men. “You ever see this symbol before? Do you know what it means?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.” Carlton shook his head. “Looks kinda Native American to me.”
“Is there anyone around these parts who would know what it means?”
“I thought you people did everything on the internet these days. Why don’t you try that?”
“I did.” Decker returned the phone to his pocket. “Came up with some similar symbols, but not this exact one, and without knowing what it’s called I have no idea where to search.”
“Shame.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Carlton replied.
“Do you know of anyone I can talk to?”
Carlton shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a Paiute reservation a drive away up near the top end of Red Rock Canyon. You could try there. Don’t know how much help they’ll be.”
“Thanks.” Decker heard a noise behind him. He glanced around to see Special Agent Barnes standing there.
“Hey. I got a name for that plate.”
“Let me guess, not from Albuquerque.”
“You must be psychic.” Barnes licked his lips. “The registered owner of that pickup is one Wagner Mitchell. Single. Forty-four years old.”
“You have an address?”
“Sure do. He owns a condo off the Strip. Figure it might be worth knocking on his door. You up for a field trip?”
“Hell, yes. Lead the way.” Decker turned back to Carlton. “And you, take it easy on that hooch.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I can think of several,” Decker said. “But the fact that it’s not even two in the afternoon seems like a fine one.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
For the second time that day, Harlan sat in the passenger seat of Wagner Mitchell’s truck as they drove out of town and through Boulder City, toward Haley. This time, though, they were not alone. Behind them, in the truck's rear cab, were a pair of Mexican laborers pulled off their job installing new floors inside the casino.
The two workers, introduced to Harlan as Hector Ramirez and Emmanuel Garcia, sat in silence, occasionally exchanging glances, but otherwise making no attempt to talk. They spoke little English, and Harlan wasn’t sure if they fully understood why he and Wagner were driving them out into the desert, or if they even cared. They knew enough to comprehend there was extra money in the unusual task they were being asked to perform, and that appeared to satisfy them. Had they realized the danger that awaited them, they would have reacted differently.
Wagner initially followed the same route as before, but then he took a different road into the canyon and bypassed the ghost town altogether. He followed his dash–mounted GPS, into which he had already fed the coordinates of the second entrance Harlan had found on his ancestor’s old map by matching it with topographical features and roads on its modern digital counterpart online. The coordinates would not be completely accurate, because there was no way to pinpoint the exact location of the mine entrance, but it would get them close enough.
“You sure you want to go through with this?” Wagner asked as they left the paved road behind and bounced up a rocky trail toward their destination. “If there really is some sort of creature in that mine, those men will be walking into a pretty dangerous situation.”
“Quiet, you fool,” Harlan said. “They can hear everything we’re saying.”
“And they can’t understand a word of it.” Wagner brought the truck to a halt.
“Why are you stopping?”
“To prove we can talk freely.” Wagner twisted to look at the two Mexicans in the back seat. “Hey guys, how’s it going?”
The two men grinned but said nothing.
“We’re giving you extra pay for this job. You understand?”
The men grinned again, and this time they nodded.
“And then were g
oing to set you free in the desert and hunt you for sport. Understand?”
This elicited the same response as before.
“See?” Wagner said. “What did I tell you?”
“All right, you proved your point.” Harlan was eager to get to the mine entrance. It was already mid-afternoon, and they only had a few hours of daylight left.
“Damn right, I did.” Wagner started moving again, gripping the steering wheel tight to control the truck as the terrain deteriorated. A few minutes later, the GPS announced they had arrived at their destination.
Harlan unclipped his seatbelt and leaned forward, peering through the windshield at the desolate desert landscape. After a while he let out a frustrated grunt. “I see nothing that looks like a mine entrance. Are you sure this is the place?”
“I’m sure. I verified the landmarks on the hand-drawn map against Google Earth. Maybe your great-great-grandfather marked the entrance wrong.”
“If he did, we’re screwed.”
“Or maybe it got covered up over the years.” Wagner opened the truck door and jumped out. “Why don’t we look around?”
“Good idea.” Harlan exited the truck and shielded his eyes against the sun, scanning the rocky outcrops and steep slopes surrounding them.
Wagner was cutting across the patch of flat ground upon which they parked toward a narrow crevice clogged with sagebrush. He pulled the bushes aside and stepped through, then shouted for Harlan. “I think I found it.”
Harlan rushed over to the spot where his general manager had disappeared. He edged his way past large boulders and pushed the sagebrush aside.
Wagner stood ten feet away in a cleft between the rocks, pointing at a square entrance in the rock face, locked by white planks nailed into thick support beams at the opening’s edges. A faded sign attached to the planks read, DANGER-MINE SHAFT-KEEP OUT.
“Good job,” Harlan said, barely able to keep the excitement from his voice. “We’ll need to get those planks off. You brought a crowbar, right?”