To top it off, they could only drink about a half cup of water per hour. It was going to be a long day.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the Civil War, when the sensation caused by the Peralta Massacre had almost been forgotten … the search for gold in Superstition was started up all over again at a much more feverish pace by the appearance of Jacob von Walzer (later shortened by him to Jacob Walz). This interest has never slackened, but, if anything is today even more intense.
“THE STORY OF SUPERSTITION MOUNTAIN AND THE LOST DUTCHMAN GOLD MINE” BY ROBERT JOSEPH ALLEN, POCKET BOOKS (SIMON AND SCHUSTER INC.), 1971, PAGE 53-54.
“What I don’t get,” said Beth, “is who’s shooting arrows at us? It would have to be Amy or the ranger—they’re the only ones who know we’re here.”
The afternoon sun beat relentlessly on Maria’s shoulders. Her insides felt like they were about to boil. In the last two hours, they’d had to turn around twice and retrace their steps because they’d been unable to find a drop into the canyon below that wasn’t too treacherous and steep.
“I asked myself the same question,” Maria answered. “But then I realized we never told Amy not to tell anyone where we were headed. She could have told Brian and he could have told someone else in the group.”
The threesome trudged on, headed west. “Tom, did you tell anyone we were in the Superstitions?” Maria tried not to talk too much as each time she opened her mouth she got a little more thirsty.
Tom licked his dry lips with his tongue. “Yeah. Melissa knows. I called her. She was in a meeting with Rep. Lankin, so he knows too.”
“How ironic,” said Maria. “The only one who doesn’t know we’re here is Derrick—the one who insisted we get permission to come.”
“Actually he does.” Tom coughed. “He texted me while I was still at the ranger station and had reception. I happen to ask him if he knew why you two would be in the Superstitions, and he kind of freaked out. He’s pretty weird about this place.”
“Yes he is.” Maria fumed. Well, that settled that question. Their secret mission to revisit the crime scene was pretty much public knowledge. She chided herself for not having clued in to Tom’s presence earlier. It had seemed so unlikely someone was following them in this forsaken place—where the dirt was parched, the vegetation brittle, and the air like sandpaper. It seemed every molecule in the entire desert was devoid of water.
An image of Rod and Dakota, hiking gear on their back, walking through this same harsh landscape entered Maria’s mind. Dakota had been apprehensive. Unsure. Scared to be with her volatile husband.
Had Rod’s mind been full of plans of how to kill her? At what point had the outdoor excursion turn deadly? Did the murder happen before he beheaded her? Maria hoped so. Perhaps he strangled her first. Or, maybe it had been long and drawn out. He could have tied her up and refused to give her water. But there had been no sign of rope fibers at the scene. And why had he cut her head off? Had he thought it would make identifying her impossible? But why go to all that bother and then leave her wallet and wedding ring? Not to mention to hide her backpack in such an obvious spot. And the journal? Why would anyone have left that journal? Simply idiotic. Then again, passion, anger—any strong emotion really—made people do dumb things.
Maria felt sick. The last two days she’d refused to let her mind wander to theorizing. But the heat, the stress, and the horrible guilt she was feeling for having gotten Beth into such a precarious situation weighed on her. Her mind was rebelling—going to the dark places she wanted to avoid.
But was that naive of her? Here she was, ex-CIA turned chief of police, and her boyfriend was in jail for alleged murder. Perhaps she should be going through even more scenarios in her mind. Maybe to do otherwise was sticking her head in the sand.
“What’s that?”
Beth’s voice jarred Maria back to issue at hand—her need to survive the desert with no clear path, no guide, and hardly any water.
“What’s what?” Maria looked around to see what Beth might be referring to but saw nothing unusual.
“I hear it too,” said Tom, thoughtfully “Almost like a whimpering animal.”
Oh, a sound.
Beth stopped walking and Maria followed her lead, cocking one ear to the hot air. There was a noise, but it wasn’t an animal. It sounded more human, like a child crying.
“Come on,” Beth said. “I think it’s coming from over here.” Beth walked slightly to the northwest.
Tom hesitated. “We don’t want to get off course. We don’t have that much water. We should probably stay on task.”
“Not me,” said Beth. “If something is in pain, I’ve got to find it. It’s who I am. Tell me I’m an idiot, and I won’t care.”
Maria knew Beth was right. They couldn’t leave something suffering in the middle of the desert. They each had just over a cup of water left. They weren’t destitute … yet.
“Lead the way,” said Maria.
The closer they got to the sound, the more obvious it was that it wasn’t a child. Or even human for that fact. The noise, albeit soft, was widespread. It grew louder, but not enough for any of them to make out clearly what was making the desperate sound.
Beth led them through a three-foot wide crevice in a split lava boulder. She gasped when she reached the end. “Guys, you’re not going to believe this.” She moved to the side of the exit so Tom and Maria could also see what was ahead.
In front of them were thousands, possibly millions, of insects. A swarm the size of three football fields. Crawling all over the ground and flying a foot above it. A red furry patch on the back of the inch-long bugs gave the impression that the desert floor was covered with blood, rolling back and forth in waves.
“What are they?” asked Tom.
“Velvet ants,” answered Beth. “They must be mating.”
“They’re squeaking,” said Maria. “The noise is coming from them.”
“Yep, it’s the females on the ground who make that noise. They also pack a pretty bad sting. It’s only the males that fly, and they don’t bite.”
“Typical,” sniffed Tom.
“How do you know so much?” Maria asked her friend. “Do you have a secret degree in zoology?”
“Nope.” Beth bent down to get a closer look at the ants. “I happen to have a fondness for national geographic shows on PBS.”
“Hey guys,” said Tom, pointing past the crawling mass of insects, “the canyon drop-in is over there. Check it out.”
It was true. Five hundred yards in front of them was a sloping but passable stretch of mountain that could get them through the elusive canyon that had been stopping their progress. But unfortunately there was no way to skirt around the swarming insects. Steep mountain cliffs blocked the insects on the left and right.
“The drop-in looks perfect,” said Maria, “except to get to it requires us to split the Red Sea.” She pointed to the bugs.
“But,” responded Tom, “it would save us time not having to retrace our steps again. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to get really thirsty.”
“If national geographic is right, only half of them bite. And they’re not necessarily aggressive. I’m game,” said Beth.
“I think it’s suicide,” said Maria. “Let’s take a minute to rest and then head back. The only way I’m going through there is if we have arrows coming at us again.” Unfortunately, the minute she said it her neck began to tingle.
As if the Superstitions Mountains had ears, an arrow sailed by the three of them. Tom swore. Beth yelped. Maria jumped.
“So … are we going through the ants?” Beth hissed.
“Yes,” Maria and Tom answered together.
The three ran straight into the blanket of fuzzy red-winged squeaking ants. The harmless males flew into Maria’s legs, hitting into her shins, calves, and thighs. She resisted the urge to swipe them away, but instead focused on pumping her arms and running straight ahead. She pressed her mouth closed i
n case one of the males decided to gain altitude.
The first bite she felt was near her ankle. And it stung. No, it burned, like someone was putting a soldering iron on her flesh and letting it sit there. The desire to reach down and get the nasty female off of her leg was strong, but she knew if she did it would slow her down.
To her side, Beth yelped in pain. So did Tom. What Beth hadn’t mentioned was whether or not the female ants could bite multiple times.
Turns out they could.
Even with the hundreds of other bugs flying into her, Maria felt the same biting female inch its way up her leg. It was at mid-calf, then right below the knee.
Another bite. She felt the searing dose of ant venom enter her bloodstream, and she wanted to scream. The first sting hadn’t calmed down at all. In fact, it had only gotten more intense. Hot and scorching.
How many more bites could Maria stand? But there was nothing to do but keep running. She was halfway through the mass. At this point there was no reason to turn back, unless she wanted to get bitten to death and impaled by an arrow.
The desire to open her mouth and shriek was overwhelming. She knew it wouldn’t physically help, but mentally it might. But she had faced similar decisions during her torture in Tehran. And like then, she kept her mouth closed.
Her companions, however, didn’t. Tom shouted a constant stream of swear words while Beth chanted the mantra, “I can do this. I can do this.”
It made Maria respect her all the more. That is how her friend faced challenges—with positive determination. All of a sudden, Beth gagged, and Maria knew she’d swallowed an ant. In this situation, probably best to keep her positivity in her mind and not verbalize it.
About thirty feet ahead of them the ground sloped downward and Maria saw that the insects thinned. They were going to make this. Granted, the pain coming from the lower portion of both her legs was excruciating —but she would survive. They all would.
Tom stumbled, hollering as he fell down into the thick layer of jumbo angry bugs. Irritated and confused, the insects clambered onto him, most likely stinging him repeatedly as they did. For some reason the man did not get up. Seeing him writhe in pain forced bile up into the back of Maria’s throat.
They had to get him off the ground. Beth was at her side in seconds. Maria reached down, being stung on her hands as she did, and grabbed Tom under his arms. Beth took his legs. Maria lifted Tom’s upper body off of the ground and began walking backward, hunched over. Beth lifted Tom’s legs. Neither of the women said a word but worked in sync as a team. The ants crawled on Tom’s face, over his eyes. Maria thought she saw one enter his nose, but she kept walking backward. The last thing she needed to do was fall down as well.
Focus.
Maria hadn’t felt a new sting in a while. Either the ants had decided Tom was easier prey or she had reached her pain threshold.
Five unsteady steps. Then ten more. The insects cleared. Beth and Maria dropped Tom onto the ground at the same time and began swatting away the ants off his skin. A few straggling males flew about, but it was the crawling females they concentrated on.
Tom seemed nearly comatose. His face was swollen twice its size. Unlike the pea-size welts on Maria’s arms and legs, Tom’s welts had swollen to the size of ping pong balls.
This wasn’t a normal reaction to the bugs. This was a severe allergy to the ant’s poison.
“Tom, can you hear me?” Maria asked as she picked an ant off his shirt. “Talk to me, Tom. What’s happening?”
“Aaaaaaa.” It wasn’t a word, but it was something. He was conscious.
“He’s swelling up everywhere.” Beth picked several more ants out of the black hair on Tom’s legs. “He must be allergic.”
“I think so,” said Maria. She rested Tom’s head on her lap and opened her backpack. “I think I’ve got some Benadryl.”
“Will that work at this point?” Beth’s face was twisted in pain. Her ability to empathize so well had its drawbacks. “I think he’s going into anaphylactic shock.”
“I don’t know.” Maria ripped open the small square packet. “But it couldn’t hurt. He probably won’t be able to swallow the pills anyway, but we have to try before things get worse and his throat swells shut.”
Beth screwed the lid off the water bottle with their last three cups of water inside. Maria lifted Tom’s head and, like she was feeding a horse medicine, she peeled his lips open and shoved the Benadryl to the back of his mouth. “Water.” She barked the order.
Beth held the bottle steady to Tom’s lips. At first she poured it in gently, teaspoons at a time. Tom gargled but didn’t swallow.
“More,” said Maria.
Beth tipped the bottle higher. The water gushed into Tom’s mouth. He shuddered, gulped, and swallowed the liquid, hopefully chasing most the antihistamine down with it.
It was all Maria could to do force herself not to look at the bottle to see how much water was left.
“Let’s get him out of the sun and try to cool him off,” said Beth.
No trees were in sight. The two friends worked in tandem once again to get the muscular man to the shade of some large boulders. Their own bites burned and throbbed. But their suffering would go away. Tom’s might not.
Maria found a tube of anti-itch cream in her backpack and began applying it to the bites on Tom’s neck and face. He began to thrash about, moaning deeply.
“Daaaaaakooo . . .” he mumbled.
“Don’t talk,” Beth cautioned him. “Everything’s fine. We’re getting help.”
Maria knew what Beth was trying to do—keep Tom calm so his cortisol levels didn’t soar. But no help was coming. Not unless they could let people know where they were. The good news was that the air was cooling and nighttime was on its way.
“I’m going to go look for something to burn. We’ll light a fire once it gets dark to signal our location. We’re completely out of water. We’ll just have to take our chances with the crazy archer who’s been following us. If Melissa, Derrick and Rep. Lankin all know we’re here, maybe they’ll have the sense to come looking for us when we don’t make it back by evening.”
“Smart. I’ll keep watch over Tom. Any suggestions?”
Maria shook her head. “Not much. Maybe keep his chin up to keep the throat as open as possible. At this point I think we’ll have to wait and see what his body can do on its own. I know we can’t carry him out of this mountain.”
“Okay.” Beth tried to smile, but it was slow in coming. “Hurry back.”
As she walked, Maria scanned the landscape for anything that might hold a flame. However, this part of the mountain was devoid of most trees. Instead she focused on finding a dead saguaro. About half a mile from where she had left Tom and Beth, she found what she was looking for—a fallen cactus about six feet tall. The flesh of the dead saguaro had turned into a heavy wooden mass. Its hardened arms jutted out from the trunk like a human body suffering the effects of rigor mortis.
Exerting herself, despite her heat exhaustion and need for water, Maria dragged the cactus using a rope from her backpack. It was slow work, but after a period of trial and error she was on her way back to Beth and Tom, dead saguaro in tow. As she walked, her mind churned over the day’s events. What they had gone through reminded her of the story Derrick had told a few nights back around the campfire—the one about the Apaches hunting down and killing the Mexican Peralta mining party.
More and more, Maria believed Melissa was right. Everything that had happened was too coincidental. Coming to Arizona, finding the body, discovering all of the evidence left at the crime scene. What was real? Any of it?
As Maria trudged along, keeping her eyes forward, focused on the goal of reaching Beth and Tom, she realized she was not alone.
Maria spun her head to see Dakota walking at her side. It was like the ghost had read her thoughts and had decided to join her to help mull over the details of her own murder.
Maria stopped. “Don’t be afraid.”
She held out an open palm. “Can you understand me?”
A confused look was the only answer Maria received. Acalan had been able to communicate some—at least give his name. Maybe as far as ghost years went, Dakota was still a young one, confused about where she was and what was happening around her?
“Can you move your head?” Maria demonstrated by nodding and shaking her head. “Can you do that for me?”
Dakota’s ghost followed her lead, moving her head up and down, then side to side.
“Good.” Maria smiled. Pointing to herself, she said, “My name is Maria.” She then nodded her head. “Yes.”
A sliver of understanding appeared on Dakota’s face.
“You,” Maria said slowly, “are dead. Yes?” She thought it was best to start off with something easy.
Dakota moved her head up and down. To Maria, it felt like having a conversation with a magic eight ball.
“Did Rod kill you?”
Dakota was back to the confused look.
Okay, maybe that was a little too fast. Maria backtracked. “Rod.” She pointed to her ring finger on her left hand. “Your husband?”
Dakota cocked her head, listening but clearly not grasping the point.
Maria’s mind whirled. Maybe a ghost couldn’t remember his or her last few moments of life. Maybe Dakota didn’t know who killed her. It made sense. Who wouldn’t want to forget the last few moments of terror until death finally took you as its victim? Maria certainly didn’t want memories like that for an eternity.
Maria talked more slowly. “Dakota, do you remember who you were with when you died?”
“Maria, who are you talking to?”
The sound of Beth’s voice startled Maria. She jerked back in surprise, and Dakota faded.
“Oh. Beth. I … I didn’t know you … you were there,” Maria stammered. “H-how’s Tom?”
“Who were you talking to?” Beth came closer.
“No one.” Maria squirmed.
Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure Page 37
