by J. R. Rain
Except now, I didn’t feel much like watching the game. The vandals upset Cindy, which upset me. Someone was going to pay.
Chapter Twenty
It was after lunch and I was back in my office listening to my voicemail. The first message was from Bank of America. I hear from them each day. Good people. Very persistent. My pal the female computer recording asked me to please hold, followed by some static and then a human voice that said: “Hello, hello?” a few times before hanging up. I owed Bank of America many thousands of dollars. Bank of America and I were just going to have to suffer through some lean times together.
The second message was from BofA.
So was the third.
The fourth was from a man I did not at first identify. The voice was soft and hesitant. I pressed the receiver harder against my ear and replayed the message from the beginning. It was from Jarred, the Rawhide town historian, and he wanted to see me ASAP. He gave me a location and a time. I looked at my watch. I could make it if I hurried.
***
An hour and a half later, I was sipping a Diet Coke at Sol’s Cafe in Hesperia. I ordered a burger and fries, and read a few pages of an emergency novel I keep in my glove box, a John Sanford I’ve been working on here and there.
Jarred arrived just as I was working on the last of the burger. The Rawhide historian looked a little wild-eyed and unsettled. Half of his shirt collar was turned up. He sat opposite me and looked out the window, as if making sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he glanced down at my nearly finished meal.
“Been here long?” he asked.
I shrugged. “About eight or nine minutes.”
“And you’ve already finished your meal?”
“What can I say? I’m a pig.”
He gave me a half grin, but seemed distracted. He kept looking out the cafe window. I looked, too, but didn’t see much, other than the nearly empty parking lot. Jarred’s face was pale, the color of worm guts.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, fine. Look, sorry for the clandestine meeting.” There was sweat on his brow and upper lip. The bottom rim of his glasses had collected sweat as well. Knee bouncing. Playing with his fork, flipping it over and over.
I watched all of this. “Clandestine is good. Makes me feel important.” I pushed the rest of the hamburger in my mouth. “Besides, I’ve always been meaning to check this place out.”
“Really? Oh, you’re joking.”
“You want a drink?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine.” He looked out the window again.
“What’s out there?” I asked.
His knee stopped bouncing. Wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think I was followed here.”
“By who?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why do you think you were followed?”
“Because it was a Rawhide maintenance truck, and it tailed me out here.”
I had seen the trucks scattered around Rawhide. “One of those blue deals,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone follow you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone doesn’t want me to meet you.”
Jarred pushed his glasses up, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it on the table in front of me. It was a map. A hand-drawn map; of what, I couldn’t be sure.
“You still want me to show you where we took Willie?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Look, I was told that if I cooperated with you, I would be fired. I like my job, and I’m doing good things out there. I’m making a name for myself. Now, I can’t help you directly,” he said, “but this is the next best thing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a map to the site.”
“Where Sylvester was originally found?” I said. “And where you took Willie Clarke?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the map. It seemed fairly basic, with very clear and concise directions.
“Where exactly was Willie’s body found?” I asked.
Jarred pointed to an X on the map. “Somewhere along here, about five or ten miles from the site.”
“Where he died of heat and fatigue and dehydration,” I said, “after his car ran out of gas.”
Jarred looked positively sick. He swallowed and said, “That’s what I understand. Lord, if I would have known he was out of gas, I would have given him a lift.”
“You didn’t wait for him?”
“His truck started right up. I thought he took an alternate route out of the desert, as he was heading back into Orange County. We thought he was fine.”
“Hell of a way to go,” I said. “Dying in this godforsaken heat.”
Jarred looked away. That he felt guilt or some remorse for the death of the college graduate was evident.
“Just make sure you have a full tank,” he said to me. “If you head out there.”
“I will.”
“And water.”
“I’ll stock up here in town.”
“You need help with the directions?”
I looked at them again. “Seem clear enough.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Why are you going out there?”
“Scene of the crime.”
“But there’s been no crime, at least not according to the police.”
I grinned. “I didn’t say which crime. I want to investigate where Sylvester was found as well.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s tied into this somehow.”
“Or maybe not at all,” said Jarred.
“Or not at all,” I said.
“There’s nothing out there, you know. It’s just an empty desert valley. I’ve been out there dozens of times myself. It’s just a big waste of time.”
I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe you actually missed something.”
“I doubt it. I’m very thorough.”
“I bet.”
He was looking out the window again, but this time he seemed lost in thought. His glasses had slipped to the tip of his narrow nose; he left them there. He flicked his gaze back to me. “Good luck and be safe.” He stood suddenly. “I have to get back to work. Are you heading to the site now?”
“Sure.”
He nodded and left. I watched him go. Outside, through the window, I watched him quickly cross the parking lot and get into the cab of a black Ford F-150. Before stepping in, he made a show of carefully looking around. And then he was gone, tires kicking up dust in the gravel parking lot. He hung a right and headed east on Highway 15, back toward Rawhide.
Chapter Twenty-one
I found a 7-11 in Hesperia and bought two gallons of water and a king-size bag of peanut M amp;M’s. Ought to hold me. I had three-quarters of a tank of gas and decided that should be adequate. According to Jarred’s map, I wasn’t heading more than fifty miles out into the desert.
With the open bag of M amp;M’s nestled in my lap, I munched away and headed east on Highway 15. As far as M amp;Ms go, I didn’t prefer one color to the other. Colors, to me, were a moot point anyway. Still, I often wondered what the M’s meant.
Twenty minutes later, I turned off Highway 15 and onto a narrow road called Burning Woman, instantly surrounded by a lot of rock and sand and heat.
I continued on and the deeper I got into the desert, the more I watched my temperature gauge. So far, so good. Hell, the bottled water was as much for my car as for me.
Occasionally, I checked my rearview mirror. No sign of a blue truck.
My windows were down. Sweat collected at the base of my spine. I sipped some water. Actually, a lot of water. The radio didn’t work. So I listened to the rush of wind past my open window and to the not so gentle purr of the Mustang’s rebuilt engine. There were no freeway noises out here. No honking horns or the rumble of Harleys.
This is nice.
Eerie.
But nice.
Per the map, I w
as to turn left onto a very small, winding road near a cluster of boulders. I soon found the boulders and made the left, using my turn signal because you never know who’s waiting behind a cluster of boulders.
Chapter Twenty-two
I sat in my car and peered down into the valley. This smelled of a set up, a trap. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
My car wasn’t getting any cooler.
I didn’t have to go down into the valley. I didn’t have to observe the spot where Sylvester was found. The last place Willie was seen alive.
Sure, I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. It was part of my job, part of the investigation; it was why I made the big bucks.
You could come back later with Sanchez and check the place out first.
Or not.
I drummed my fingers some more, took in a lot of hot air. Sweat coated my skin. I stopped drumming long enough to drink some water, then resumed the drumming.
Then again, if I headed down into the canyon to look under the proverbial rock, it might be interesting to see what comes scurrying out into the light of day.
Sure, I thought, if you don’t mind using yourself as bait.
A solitary hawk, or perhaps a vulture, circled the sky above, its massive wingspan forming an arching V. The sky was cloudless. The sun was almost directly overhead.
I scanned the surrounding desert; I appeared to be alone. Scraggly bushes clung to the sunbaked earth.
With my Browning tucked into my waistband, I stepped out of the car and regretted it almost instantly. The sun was unbearable, true, but it was the heat rising up from the sand that threw me off guard.
I’m getting it from both ends.
If there was indeed a sun god, he was surely smiling wolfishly down on this foolish mortal.
I brought one of the bottled waters with me, locked the car. By habit I set the alarm, and the horn beeped once, echoing down into the canyon. I think something scuttled in a nearby bush, frightened by the beep.
At least the car was safe. And I would know if anyone screwed with it.
I was wearing a tee shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts and basketball sneakers. Boots would have been better against rattlesnakes, although boots would have looked pretty silly with Bermuda shorts. I moved the gun from the small of my back to the front pocket of my shorts, as I didn’t want to sweat on it.
And headed down.
The path was steep. The rocks underfoot loose. More than once I slipped, but never fell, thanks to my cat-like reflexes.
I reached the valley floor without melting or mummifying. There, I found some shade at the base of the cliff wall where I stopped and drank some water.
The valley was far removed from anything. Why had Sly, or whoever he was, been out here in the first place?
Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was part of a bank robbing gang and this valley was their hideout; maybe his fellow bangers turned on him.
The wind picked up, bringing with it a spicy mix of juniper and sage. Or maybe I was just smelling my own cooking flesh.
I knew from my readings that Sylvester A. Myers, the man who first found Sly back in 1901, had been looking for the next great silver claim. Turns out he found a mummified man instead.
The sun angled through the narrow canyon walls. The walls were mostly dirt and sandstone, layered with the occasional swath of something darker, perhaps basalt. The hawk or vulture continued to circle slowly above. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.
Something scuttled in a bush nearby.
Ah, life emerges.
Before me was a mound of three huge boulders. Screwed into one of the boulders was a very old and faded brass plaque. It read: “In memory of the Nameless who helped settle the Wild West.”
That was assuming a lot. Maybe Sylvester didn’t help settle anything. Hell, maybe he had done his best to unsettle things. Maybe that was why he was shot.
Maybe, but somehow I doubted it.
I bent down and took a handful of the hot sand, sifted it through my fingers. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of a man staggering through these canyons, gut-shot, bleeding and hurting. Alone and probably scared. Or not. Do cowboys get scared?
Yeah, probably.
To the east, high on the high cliff above, something flashed. Instinctively, I turned my body, narrowing myself as a target. Beside me, next to my left elbow, a section of the boulder exploded in a small cloud of dust, pelting me with rock fragments. I dove, rolling.
The report from a rifle followed, echoing throughout the valley.
It kept echoing even as I kept rolling.
Chapter Twenty-three
I rolled to the relative safety of the boulders, dirt and sand going up my shorts and into places it had no business going.
Worry about sand in your craw later.
Good idea.
The rocks gave some shelter, but not as much as I would have liked as I was forced to stay low to the ground with my face pressed against the hot earth. I removed my Browning, hoping sand hadn’t gotten lodged in the barrel.
A second shot thunked near my shoes. I jerked my exposed legs in closer as an earsplitting echo followed the shot.
Jesus, that was close.
Blindly, I eased my arm around the boulder, let loose with two shots of my own in the general proximity of the spot I had seen the reflection. The two shots were to give the shooter something to think about. I had seven more to be more careful with.
My return fire seemed to work. The shooting from above stopped, at least for the time being. I lay there behind the boulder, trying to make myself as small as possible-a difficult task at best-alert for any sounds or movement.
And then I saw movement, but not the kind I expected.
Ten feet away, emerging from the shadows of a smaller boulder, probably awakened by the gunshots-that is, if they even slept-was a tarantula. From my perspective, with my face pressed against the hot sand, the thing looked gargantuan.
The gargantuan tarantula took a few steps in my direction.
Jesus.
My skin crawled, and if I wasn’t currently under gunfire attack I might have jumped up and ran.
It continued toward me. Slowly, deliberately…
I swallowed. Sweat rolled from my temple and into my right eye, momentarily blurring the little monster. When my vision cleared, I saw that it had stopped. Now, slowly, it raised its two hairy front legs up into the air. Like a referee signaling a touchdown.
More movement behind it-
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Issuing out of a hole at the base of the boulder, as if straight from Hell, were dozens and dozens of tarantulas. All huge. All hairy, and all moving purposely toward me, like something out of a horror movie.
Like something out of a horror movie?
Hell, this was a horror movie.
Suddenly the water bottle next to me exploded, spraying me with water and briefly confusing the spiders. I had actually forgotten about the gunfight. Hell, the gunfight was almost a welcome distraction at this point.
I took a deep breath, tried to focus. They were just spiders, right? Were tarantulas even poisonous? I think some were. How about California desert tarantulas? And since when did California have tarantulas?
Another shot. As the bullet ricocheted off the boulder near my head, something touched my hand. I jerked my hand away just as a particularly fat and hairy spider tumbled onto its back, its legs kicking at the air furiously.
Sweet Jesus.
I gathered myself, mentally considered my choices, realized I didn’t have many, and then did the only thing I could think of. I fired a single shot from around the boulder. The blast sent the tarantulas scurrying-and me scurrying, too.
I stood suddenly, fired two more shots up into the cliff, and dashed off toward the north cliff wall. A single shot exploded in the sand near my feet. I had surprised the shooter. Hell, I had surprised myself.
Breathing hard, sweating even harder, I pulled up next to the curving cliff
face, partially out of the shooter’s line of fire. Still, he was somewhere above me.
At least, I thought he was a he.
Typical male bias.
My skin was still crawling. I think I was going to have the heebie-jeebies for a week, if I survived that long.
A jutting rock buttress partially shielded me from the sun and, hopefully, from the shooter. I waited there another ten minutes without incident. Incident being, of course, gunshots and tarantulas. Now there’s a band name for you.
Keeping to the shadows of the cliff trail, I slowly worked my way back up the steep face. Already, I was regretting not having the water.
There were no more gunshots.
Or giant, hairy bugs.
I was about halfway up the cliff face when I heard it: the sudden roar of an engine. Recklessly, I pocketed my pistol, scrambled up the rest of the way as fast as I could.
Just as I crested the cliff ridge, I saw a blue Rawhide truck hauling ass out of here, kicking up about a mile’s worth of dust in its wake.
I looked over at my car; it appeared unmolested. Hopefully, it still had some gas.
A moment later, sitting in the hot seat, I slipped the key into the ignition. Praying hard, I turned the key. The engine started with a roar. I still had more than half a tank.
Thank God.
Chapter Twenty-four
My mother’s cemetery, late.
I had been drinking all evening. Cindy was away in Santa Barbara with some girlfriends. Not a bad idea since I tended to spend the weekends watching football.
Alone for the weekend, I was free to drink. Whoopee. Only I didn’t want to get so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy football. That would just be stupid.
Fuck football.
Okay, now I knew I was drunk.
With the engine still running, I was parked along Vicente Street, next to the cemetery’s entrance. My lights were off.
The cemetery was massive and rolling, covering many dozens of acres. Lots of dead bodies here. Of those bodies, I wondered how many had been murdered. And of those murders, I wondered how many went unsolved?
