Black Mountain

by Laird Barron

  “The raping or the murdering?”

  “Dogs are ferocious, brave, and loyal,” I said. “The best dogs are. This Outfit should call itself Black Curs.”

  “Can’t argue.”

  “Black Dog began as something else. Zircon Security Solutions was the first iteration and its remit merely covered defense of corporate interests and personnel.”

  “Gonna be a chapter on merc companies when you publish your memoirs?” he said.

  “In the 1980s, BD became larger and split off into a subsidiary. That sweet, sweet windfall of overseas terrorism, the Soviet occupation in Afghanistan, the endless conflicts in the Middle East and Africa. BD didn’t really come into its own until around the time of Desert Storm, and blew it up—pardon the pun—during the Iraq War. No stopping them once we invaded Afghanistan. Ironically, agendas such as ‘peacekeeping’ and ‘nation-building’ gave those who lusted for war and chaos all the license they’d ever need to perpetrate crimes against humanity.”

  “Your dad consults with them, doesn’t he?”

  “Another reason we don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

  Delia returned to us while her men-at-arms conferred on the veranda. She appeared radiantly unfazed.

  “My, oh my, they are beside themselves. Father is displeased and, as is his custom, blaming them for his impending stroke. He’s flying in from a trip to Switzerland. I can expect a phone-lashing soonest.”

  “I assume ‘displeased’ is an understatement,” I said.

  “Vesuvius erupting would be an understatement. Shall we get going before he sends a platoon of Marines?”

  “Got all the Marine you need, honey,” Lionel said.

  She stroked his hand sympathetically.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Six miles along the secondary highway, then right onto an unmarked dirt lane hidden in the saddle of two steep hills. Jekyll and Hyde cruised in a black SUV. They tailgated me for a bit, then fell back when we made the turn, and I lost sight of them. Earlier, as we’d loaded into our separate vehicles, I had the distinct impression they would have happily shot Lionel and me, as they’d likely done unto defenseless citizens in Iraq where American law didn’t reach.

  Lionel went dark, as I termed this among his variable moods. Every move was deliberate; calmness notwithstanding, the set of his jaw and the fever in his gaze bespoke a profound depth of loathing. He smiled, yet his eyes could’ve nailed a man to the cross. I regarded him as my buddy, Lionel Robard. The reality? Getting on his wrong side wasn’t a keen idea.

  I inched the Monte Carlo forward as branches scraped its sweet paint job. The road hadn’t been graded in years. A hard rain would render it an impassible quagmire for anything less sturdy than a tank.

  Twice, the road forked and Delia gestured left, then left again, and thus I steered. We stopped at a padlocked chain gate. I knelt and studied the ruts, hoping to ascertain approximately when the last vehicle had passed. Impossible. She unlocked the gate and on we went. Her possession of the key might be another subject to discuss presently.

  Fifteen minutes and another fork, then I rounded a bend into a clearing. The “cabin” rested on a knoll. Over its shoulder and down, I glimpsed water shining through a notch in the dense stands of pine, cottonwood, and willow.

  I’d anticipated a humble wooden shack or a homey log cabin. What awaited was a medium-sized Cubist house of metal and glass resting atop a foundation encased in rock slabs. The house ticked all the boxes of the weird, avant-garde constructivist homes dreamed up by eccentrics in the early twentieth century and further mutated during the psychedelic ’60s. Vines climbed downspouts and metal trellises. Mold and moss and verdigris proclaimed this an oft-neglected structure. It withstood the worst elements thanks to the imperviousness of its base materials and not to the diligence of its owner.

  We got out and surveyed the property. The rotting woodshed and generator shack were more traditional wooden outbuildings. Nothing special. I estimated someone hacked the encroaching bushes and weeds every few years, in a holding pattern. A worn path led to a narrow stretch of muddy beach and a ramshackle dock. The lake stretched for a half mile into pervasive mist. Sunlight flashed from the windows of other weekend cabins perched on a ridge directly across the water. Birds twittered in the woods all around us; our voices were the only other sounds.

  Incongruously, the house and surrounding acreage reminded me of the furniture warehouse in Michigan. I whiffed an indefinable sense of wrongness. Abandoned slaughterhouses and asylums radiate a similar, palpable afterglow of malignance and death.

  “Hey, Lionel,” I said. “What do you suppose? Two or three acres, and the house, nets you a quarter of a mil? Half a mil?”

  “Easy.”

  I went into the generator shack and examined the diesel rig bolted to a concrete footing. These beasts were built to survive nuclear winter; nonetheless, someone had maintained it properly, kept it greased and gleaming. I topped the fuel and oil and pushed the button. The engine chugged and power flowed.

  “Hurray!” Lionel called down from the terrace entrance. “My beer will stay frosty.”

  “What’s left of it,” Delia said.

  Jekyll and Hyde reversed their SUV in and parked beside our car. Jekyll wore an earpiece with a slender Bluetooth mic. He spoke into the mic—doubtless, contacting Papa Labrador. I noted the time and wondered how long before that platoon of Marines—or, given the circumstances, Black Dog mercs—arrived to retrieve Ms. Labrador. Lionel and I might even be the lucky recipients of a bonus ass-kicking, depending upon her old man’s mood. Neither her descriptions nor the snippets of gossip I’d procured suggested superindustrialist Jonathan Labrador ever made the short ballot for the Nobel Peace Prize.

  * * *

  —

  THE INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE enhanced the Russian-cum-1960s-mad-architect aesthetic. I counted two bedrooms, a bathroom, modest kitchen, living room, and a storage closet. More storage under the house and in an attic crawl space. Formica, iron railings, thick rugs, patterned sheetrock, and that general aesthetic, merged with unusual angles, Art Deco furniture, crystal lighting fixtures, and paintings torn from pulp science-fiction covers—bubble-helmeted astronauts strode across barren moonscapes in one series while dashing men armed with ray guns and buxom women clad in strategically torn uniforms fought horrible alien brutes in jungles and the calderas of active volcanoes. Prints of the Rat Pack were prominent in the hallway and bedrooms. Harold Lee’s contribution to the décor.

  Starker were numerous black-and-white photos of forbidding landscapes and animals. The animal scenes exclusively featured predators in action. Lion prides pursuing zebras amid dust clouds; charging brown bears; crocodiles preying upon wildebeests in a muddy river; and a great white shark breached, its jaws agape. The one that arrested my attention was of a huge golden eagle tearing the brains out of a young, starved wolf on the taiga. The photographer’s signature devolved over the life of the sequence. From the earliest, I derived “X. M. Vance.”

  I took pics of each to add to my burgeoning album.

  We’d come to the right place, the place we needed to be. In the back of my mind, a lizard stirred, a blood moon beamed through a scrim of black clouds, and a revolver cylinder rotated until a bullet lined up under the hammer, the hammer cocked. It gladdened the killer in me to feel the rightness of it, the inevitability of an onrushing mass of fur and claw. But it also terrified me every bit as much.

  “Isn’t it absolutely marvelous?” Delia performed an expert twirl with her arms outstretched. “You almost expect Andy Warhol and a bevy of his girls to waltz in wearing jumpsuits and crack a magnum of pink champagne to celebrate our arrival.” She swept into the kitchen and rummaged in cupboards.

  Lionel sidled close to me, scowling. He grabbed my elbow and guided me to one side.

  “Warhol and dancing girls, my ass. Corpses dangling f
rom meat hooks is more realistic,” he said. “It doesn’t feel like a house. A cave—”

  “The lair of a man-eater,” I said. “Round a corner and find a half-mad black bear lying on a mound of bones. It smells like somebody tried to bleach away bloodstains.”

  “A lair, yeah. The Croatoan was here?”

  “It wasn’t Kilroy. I’m of a mind this served as Oestryke’s HQ after he did a French leave from the mob and took up stamp collecting and casual murder.”

  “What makes you certain?”

  “The animal photos.” I’d told Lionel about Denis Swenson’s surprise visit to Morris Oestryke. “Swenson mentioned that he saw one similar to these hanging on the wall. When we cased Harry’s place, there was a photograph of wolves in a forest. Be damned if it isn’t the same photographer. This is the den of the beast.”

  “Because friends share interests?”

  “Don’t they? Lee and Anderson were thugs and outdoorsmen. Oestryke obviously liked that about them.”

  “Well.” He took in our surroundings. “Expensive clubhouse.”

  “The sheer amount of dough Oestryke hauled in for those hits, he could’ve afforded this pad a dozen times over. Say he bought it way back when as a getaway from the wife and kids. It has to be registered under an alias. Later on, it would’ve made a terrific hideout and staging area. Sufficient quantities of fuel and supplies, a desperado could fortify here indefinitely. Secluded . . . the neighbors are usually absent. String victims in the storage room or the shed, and take your time. Who cares how much they scream; nobody will hear them. If I’m right—and I’m right—there might be a few nasty surprises on the property.”

  “We’re on the same page, man. I’ve swept for obvious traps. Clean. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any, depending on the sophistication. The Croatoan isn’t known for explosives, is he? Tell me he’s not.”

  “No, but I’d watch for trip wires and pressure plates. I’m hoping that since Harry stayed here and didn’t get blown to smithereens by a booby trap, there aren’t any.”

  “You sound like a pair of conspirators.” Delia hung her coat on a rack. “Do you tear this house apart next? I hope not. Perhaps a mild ransacking?”

  “Lionel, the lady says we should ransack the joint.”

  “By all means, then. A gentleman never refuses a lady.”

  “Mild,” she said. “A mild ransacking. What are we searching for? Property deeds? A bloody knife? A signed confession?”

  “We’re not searching for anything,” Lionel said. “Brew a pot of coffee and plant your sweet ass on that recliner while the men sort out this business.” He laughed at her dangerous frown and kissed her cheek. “But seriously, stay put and don’t touch anything. There might be booby traps, and I love you just the way you are.”

  “You’re joking.” Her tone made it clear that a smidgeon of sexism is sexy. More than a pinch is plain old sexism.

  “About you staying put or the possibility of traps? Neither.”

  Her smile flickered as she tried to decide if this had progressed from fun and games to something less wholesome. Discretion won the day. She flopped onto the chair and messed around with her cell phone.

  “Won’t be two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he said.

  “The scientists who developed the Manhattan Project were fond of that idiom.” She didn’t glance up from her phone. “Quite appropriate if you’re worried about triggering high explosives. Life comes at you fast.”

  We tossed the house with brisk efficiency. I was aware of a ticking clock in the form of the Black Dog mercs. As was Lionel; he frequently peeked through the blinds to monitor their positions.

  Soon, we made our way to the storage room, which lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs. I entertained the notion that Oestryke once used this room to torture and kill his prey. The faint residue of bleach and the haphazard arrangement of cheapo shelving were giveaways that they were props. He might have built a separate kill chamber elsewhere on the property. A serial killer wouldn’t want to risk legitimate guests, such as Harold Lee, stumbling over half-dead victims. The weekend cabins on the other side of the lake were contemporary construction. That meant more weekenders, and more potential interlopers. A man needed complete privacy for a hobby this involved.

  Left to my own devices, I would’ve flailed around and come away empty-handed. Lionel scanned the room for a few seconds and zeroed in on the trapdoor. His tours in Afghanistan had taught him the fine art of locating (and hiding) contraband. A section of tile flooring shone ever so slightly brighter than its surroundings. He sliced the linoleum apart with a box cutter and revealed an inset pull ring.

  “Think it’s wired?” I said.

  He waggled his hand to signify a fifty-fifty chance.

  I grunted and heaved until the hatch sprang open. We weren’t blown to smithereens. He clicked on a penlight and shone the beam into the hole.

  The hidden crawl space was festooned with dust bunnies and spiderwebs. It hadn’t seen light for three or four years. The crawl space proved to be a treasure trove—jammed into its confines were a foul, musty ghillie suit that Special Forces snipers were partial to; a stained nylon stocking; a set of skinning knives—serrated, hooked, and filleting models—and bone saws wrapped in a canvas tarp; and an Army ammo box stuffed with hand-drawn diagrams and heavily annotated maps of the greater Catskills region, plus four passports and multiple driver’s licenses issued with Oestryke’s photo, but with various aliases, the most recent of which was dated August 1985. I would’ve given a quart of blood to have seen a more recent headshot.

  There were also two plastic sealable bins. The smaller bin contained several VCR tapes. The second bin was packed with bundles of weathered C-notes. Unexpectedly encountering so much cash—or coke, or diamonds—has a bracing effect on a man akin to getting slapped hard or socked in the gut.

  We crouched in the storeroom, examining our evidence; speechless for a few moments as the implications sank in and took root. My thoughts spun wildly, pinging from exhilaration to worry and back again. Which direction should I jump? Any choice, such as keeping this find to myself, was freighted with unknowable pitfalls and consequences. Should I call in the cavalry? Bellow, or Curtis, or neither of them?

  What of my own “sweet” dad? Mervin had parlayed his military intelligence service into post-retirement consultation with mysterious government entities. He was at least tangentially affiliated with Black Dog. Weighing these factors, I concluded I’d roast alive on a spit rather than beseech his aid.

  If my admittedly vague theories regarding Oestryke’s true identity were on the mark, then the presence of a Zircon heiress and her Black Dog retainers complicated the imminent peril by magnitudes. Matters of life and death are often more fluid, more volatile, than people understand.

  I’ve long believed that human existence is a story tree, a branching series of decisions, large and small. The catch? You don’t always recognize which is which from a distance. Life indeed comes at you like a train. Blow the wrong call and it’s curtains, my friend.

  “Oh, Harry Lee, you poor sad-sack bastard,” Lionel said in a musing tone. “He screws over his hitman pal to repay a loan, co-opts the dead man’s weekend shack, and, the whole time, he’s sitting on a fortune.”

  I was thoroughly impressed Harry had managed to keep the existence of his home away from home a secret from Curtis and the rest of the Mafia. Harry had possessed his own version of protective coloring—bumbling, apologetic, heart-on-his-sleeve, aging thug with a pathetic fetish for out-of-date pop music and burlesque dancers. A man nobody took seriously until his murder caused a stir.

  “This is the tip of the iceberg,” I said, thinking back to the conversation with Curtis wherein he’d reached the exact same conclusion. “There are millions out there, scattered across the state, moldering in caches and safe-deposit boxes rented under false identities.”


  Hyde leaned his oversized upper body into the entryway. He appraised the knives, ammo box, and our guilty demeanors. Fortunately, Lionel had covered the cash with the ghillie suit. Hyde ducked around the corner, his footsteps rapidly receding.

  “Fuck me running,” Lionel said. And that summed it up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We sealed the trapdoor with the flap of tile, dragged a shelf over it, and adjourned to the living room to plot our next move. The mercenaries were conferring with Delia. Tense scene. In retrospect, the strategic play would’ve been to jump them preemptively. A split-second opportunity that came and went. I poured a glass of water. Lionel cracked a beer. We men all stood around, feigning coolness.

  Evidently, the Black Dogs tattled to their boss.

  “Ms. Labrador, your father requests that you contact him immediately.” Jekyll’s gaze fixed on Lionel as he delivered the message in a marginally elevated tone. “Immediately, ma’am. Without delay.”

  Delia didn’t sting the merc with a snappy retort or roll her eyes dramatically. She pressed her phone to her ear and stepped into the master bedroom and shut the door. Immediately was code for “Daddy means business,” it seemed.

  The mercs stood near Lionel where he’d settled into a funky iron-and-vinyl chair.

  “Mr. Labrador has a message for you, Robard,” Jekyll said. “He strongly feels it would be better for all concerned if you became scarce. Further, he advocates traveling light. You aren’t walking out that door with anything you didn’t bring here in your pockets.”

  “Scarce as hen’s teeth?” Lionel said. “Honest car salesmen? Virgins on prom night?”

  “You should’ve been in the wind thirty seconds before we knew you were gone. That scarce.”

  “Or?”

  “Mr. Labrador anticipated your smart lip. Jarheads are notorious assholes. Nonetheless, he hopes you will accept his suggestion. Your continued presence may result in health complications. Personally, I’m fine if you refuse his advice.”