Parker grimaced and began to raise his hand to his head. “Shit.” He waved his hand back and forth and closed his eyes. His breath was coming in gasps.
Frank’s heart raced. Parker had almost given his spotter the wrong signal. “What’s the matter, Parker?”
“Nothing, Sergeant. Not a thing. A memento mori, that’s all.” He smiled and came to his feet, steadying himself against the table. “I’m not alone, Sergeant. See the Jesus sign across the street? He’s keeping an eye on things.” He gave a dry laugh. “My disciple, that is—but it’s a beginning. Which reminds me. Stay put until the laser’s gone. Then we’ll be gone.” His face twisted into a forced smile. “Write up what I told you, Ms. Reyes. It was for the record. You’ll be hearing from me, now and then.”
Frank watched him cross the cracked pavement to the street and climb into a Dodge Caliber. What a stupid, stupid name, he thought. Probably a rental or stolen. It was too far away to make the plate. The car pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the highway.
“Frank, how long will we have to sit here?” Linda looked down at the motionless spot in the middle of her chest.
“Ease over to your right.”
Linda scooted over. The spot held steady, then disappeared into the desert.
“It’s okay. They’re gone. They clamped the scope and left it behind.”
•
Linda leaned against the window of Frank’s truck. “What did Dave say?”
Frank folded the cell phone and set it on the seat, where it was sure to slide onto the floor. “The FBI guys want to stay the course. They think this is a ‘window of opportunity.’ ” He gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t think they trust me.”
“Why wouldn’t they trust you?
“Too close to the target. You know, birds of a feather.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Mine is not to reason why.” He shook his head. “Dave says he thinks the operation will go as planned. If Parker’s their man, fine. If not, it doesn’t make any difference. One way or another, they think this is the time to close in.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder. “At least you know who it is.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s a memento mori?”
“A reminder of death, of your own mortality, so you don’t forget to take care of your soul.”
“You guys chat away in Latin?”
“Jesuit high school.” He studied her face, the soft curls surrounding the intelligent eyes. He felt her receding into some distant place. It was as if he were drawing away into the darkness, leaving her behind in a place where life went on in a normal way.
“You know why he’s a killer?” Frank asked.
She shook her head.
“He can’t bear the suffering.”
“He makes people suffer. He confessed to having a man eaten by his own dogs.”
Frank shook his head. “That wasn’t a confession. It was penance for being a part of it.”
“Of what? What was he a part of?”
“You know your Yeats?”
Linda shook her head.
“ ‘The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.’ Yeats was a prophet, you know.” He reached for her hand.
“Why does he call himself the Sandman?”
“It’s a shooter’s nickname. He puts people to sleep.”
16
•
“There’s a side canyon in a couple more miles and some abandoned mines. We could look around. See what’s up.” They were climbing up out of the Saline Valley, nearing the top of Grapevine Canyon. Last night’s thundershowers had settled the dust, and the air was bright and perfumed with the scent of sage and pinyon. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced the towering thunderheads building up against the Sierra. In places the road was slippery with mud, but there hadn’t been enough rain for washouts.
It was a perfect day, yet Eddie struggled with an altogether unfamiliar sense of gloom. Susan Funmaker had made his chest ache in tenth grade, and now here it was again. Only this time, it was Cece Flowers who had reawakened these feelings of longing. His usual cheerful expediency had been displaced by uncharacteristic introspection. He found the change awkward and depressing.
Cece was reaching the edge of impatience. Driving around the desert with Eddie had not been part of her original plan. She wanted to get on with it, to find some abandoned mine, something that would do as a stand-in for the New Hope Mine, get some investors, and split, but Eddie was determined to find the right spot. She desperately wanted to soak in a bathtub, remove the layers of grime, and put on some fresh clothes.
Eddie pointed up the side canyon. “See the tailings?”
Cece leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “That pile of rocks?”
“Those are tailings from a mine. Someone did some serious digging here,” Eddie said in a tone that conveyed a certain level of acquired expertise.
“Why there?” She was concerned that the mine might not be truly abandoned. That someone still held the mining rights.
Eddie thrust his jaw forward, the effigy of the noble savage: simple, honest, and direct, the Iron Eyes Cody look. “There’s a couple of trees up above the tailings. There’s a spring running down the canyon.” The recent rain had given birth to a number of ephemeral streams. “That fits the map, don’t it?”
“Possibly. Let’s take a look.”
“Yeah, okay.” Someday, he hoped, she’d see that all he was doing was for her.
“Are we north of Darwin?” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Well, yeah.” Eddie was surprised that Cece knew the name of the ghost town, much less its location. He’d headed for the higher country when it threatened to rain. Cece leaned forward to look out of Eddie’s window again to check out the site. Sure enough, there was a resemblance to the crude drawings on the map. She’d tried to make the map vague by leaving out stuff from the original. The equipment looked old and rusted; although she didn’t know all that much about mines and mining, she recognized the remains of a mine head from the pictures in the library. Judging by the tailings, it hadn’t been a large or successful operation.
Eddie shifted Jack’s International into four-wheel drive lowrange and began grinding up the wash toward the pile of rock heaped below the dark mouth of a tunnel cut into the side of the canyon.
“Don’t flip this thing.” Cece breathed through clenched teeth.
“Not a problem. Trucks like this can climb right up the side of a mountain.” Eddie brought the truck to a halt just below the lower edge of the tailings. “This’ll do,” he said, climbing out of the vehicle and scrambling for footing on the steep slope.
“If the mine’s already here, maybe somebody else has claimed it.” She squinted into the darkness of the tunnel.
“I don’t think so. Look at this stuff. It’s been lying around for a long time.” Eddie pitched his voice to match the experts he’d seen on TV reality shows. “Suppose you found some gold, made a big strike, and rushed off to town to file your claim. Then suppose you couldn’t find your way back to where you found it. Then suppose some other guy comes along and says, ‘Hey, look at this gold ore, man. This here’s my mine. Think I’ll call it the Jackpot.” He winked at Cece, even though she couldn’t see it in the gloom. “Well, the first guy lost the mine, but the second guy found it. So the mine’s lost for the first guy but not the second guy. See what I mean?”
“You’re telling me someone already found my mine?” she snarled. “Shit, then what are we doing here?”
Eddie glanced at Cece. There it was again. Over the past two days, she had begun to sound more and more like someone’s ex hanging around the Stage Stop bar and less and less like one of his friend’s sisters. Somehow it made her more approachable.
“Naw, what I’m telling you is that maybe someone else could’ve found it, unless there’s some sort of old claim marker, and man, that’d make you the winner.�
�� He sighed with resignation at her ignorance of mining affairs. “We’ll look around at different mines that sort of fit the map and the letter. Rule ’em out or rule ’em in. See, most of these claims are abandoned. If you don’t work ’em, then the claim lapses.”
Eddie led them out onto the dirt apron fronting the tunnel. “On the bright side”—Eddie exposed a grubby grin—“sometimes they miss the main ore body.” Man, he sounded good, the main ore body. “Besides, here’s a level space, a good place to camp.”
“Camping sounds good,” Cece said, “and I need to wash up.” She raised an arm, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Well, you stink worse than I do. Check it out.” She broke into a silvery peal of laughter, grinning at his reaction. Eddie thought she looked sexy as ever, but not as scary. Her coarse language had shortened the social distance, although he wouldn’t have put it that way. Maybe he could make a move before meeting with Linda Reyes. They were supposed to meet her at the junction of the Talc Mine Road and the Saline Valley Road.
He began unloading the camping equipment from Jack’s truck and stashing it in the mouth of the mine. “I’ll set up the stove and heat up some water, so you can wash up.”
“Great.” She gave Eddie a knowing look. “Maybe you can go meet Linda and give me some privacy.”
“Yeah, sure,” Eddie said, his hopes somewhat dashed. He turned to go.
“Hey, how long will you be gone?”
“Couple hours at the most.”
She frowned with concern and looked up at the sky.
“I’ll set up the tent so you’ll be nice and dry if it rains.”
“Thanks, Eddie. I really appreciate it. I mean it.” She gave his arm a squeeze.
Putting up the tent would be a good idea. He thought about all the things that could happen in the tent during a long stormy night. He set it up in the mouth of the tunnel, glancing up at the darkening sky as he worked. “What time is it?”
Cece looked at her watch. “Three fifteen.”
“Okay, see you around five,” he said, giving her the thumbs-up sign.
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks again,” she said, glancing up at him from under the fall of blond hair.
Eddie got into Jack’s truck with a soaring heart. Maybe she really liked him. That would be great. He pulled down the canyon and headed for the junction with the Talc Mine Road to meet with Linda Reyes. She was writing a story about Cece, a woman prospector in modern times. She said he’d be in it, too. That would be good for business, he thought.
17
•
The birds whirled in a giant vortex against a deep blue sky darkened with rising thunderheads. The southward drift of the migration was unapparent to the casual observer, but Seth Parker was far from a casual observer. Thousands of vultures would pass over the southern Sierra on their way to Mexico. He followed the flight of a single bird, waiting to see when it would flap its wings, watching it effortlessly ride the currents of air.
Sometimes it seemed as if they were swimming in an invisible sea. He pushed the button on the binoculars, capturing a vulture in flight, the flight feathers separated like fingers clasping the wind, its wings stretched out against the deep blue of the fall sky. The digital camera–binoculars combination was perfect for watching birds—and cops. He knew there were cops watching for two men, one of them a redheaded man with graying stubble. Now the Sandman was a clean-shaven dark-haired man, traveling with a fellow bird-watcher. Sergeant Flynn’s warning was already dated.
As he topped the rise, he spotted another truck pulled off to the side. More law enforcement trying to look like birders. He shook his head. You didn’t do bird counts sitting in the cab of a truck looking bored. You picked a good site, set things up, watched the sky, made notes. Blending into the company of bird-watchers was easy for Seth Parker; he was a bird-watcher. He’d stenciled a sign on the side of his pristine VW van, ALTADENA AUDUBON SOCIETY, but the paint was washable.
He’d risked bringing John along. This was his first mission. John was overly enthusiastic and had a tendency to attract attention, but he was perfect as a bird-watcher, decked out in lace-up boots, cargo pants, and wool cap. Law enforcement people wouldn’t give them a second look.
He thought he’d seen two more law enforcement types north of Darwin. They were looking for the Sandman, and here he was, hiding in plain sight. He resisted the urge to wave at the bored cops sitting in the pickup. There was no point in tempting fate. Up to this point, the taunt from the so-called Brotherhood of American Sportsmen appeared to be a trap. He had been watching it unfold and taking pictures of the cops. He’d post the pictures on the Web site. Let them know how clumsy they’d been. So far, there was no sign of the Brotherhood of American Sportsmen or Sergeant Flynn.
•
The first shot almost tipped Walter Ortman over. His ears were still ringing from the blast.
“Man, you are right,” Ortman said to his companion. “That’s louder than hell.” He took the huge revolver in his left hand and shook his right, trying to shake away the pain. “Kicks like a mule.” He grinned with pleasure. He’d never been around a .44 Magnum when it went off, much less actually shot one. So he was unprepared for the recoil and noise, despite his partner’s warning. He shook his head as if he’d been struck, but he was absolutely delighted with the power of the gun’s discharge. Stunning. “We didn’t bring anything for our ears, did we?”
His companion shook his head. “All kinds of ear protectors back at camp.”
Ortman rooted around in his trouser pockets for something to stuff in his ears to protect himself from the blast: keys, change, comb. He checked his jacket pockets and found a couple of business cards and some ChapStick. He tore two strips from one of the cards, folded one into a small cone-shaped tube, and tried to fit it in his ear. It poked uncomfortably. He crunched it around in his hand and re-formed it. Then he got the idea of putting ChapStick around the edges. Much better. He made a second and inserted it into the other ear.
He picked up a Bud Lite can that he found lying on the ground and set it on a fist-sized rock. He trotted back about twenty feet and took a spread-eagle stance, gripping the Ruger Redhawk with both hands. He jerked on the trigger, flinching in anticipation of the noise and recoil. Nothing happened, except that the barrel of the revolver jumped away from the target. He’d forgotten to cock it. He’d have to work on that, flinching so bad you couldn’t hit anything.
He took a deep breath, pulled back on the hammer, and resighted along the barrel. He held his breath in anticipation and had just started to squeeze the trigger when the gun discharged. Only this time he’d been almost ready, really hanging on. The can wasn’t there. He hurried back to where he’d placed it. Gone. The rock was gone, too. Then he spotted the can way off to the left. Had to be thirty feet. He went over and picked it up. No bullet hole, but near the bottom there were half a dozen irregular tears in the metal. He turned it in his hand. The holes must have been made by the exploding rock.
Ortman grinned. It could kill rocks. He turned his gaze to the birds wheeling above. Some were so high they were no more than tiny specks, but some were low, just sailing lazily along in the afternoon breeze. He sighted up at one and moved his arms in a slow arc, following the path of flight. Boom! The vultures flapped their wings and continued to wheel about. He hadn’t hit anything.
“Don’t stop moving when you pull the trigger. Let it be part of the whole motion, following the bird and pulling the trigger,” his friend advised. “Squeeze.”
Ortman took a couple more shots. The vultures flapped their wings, gaining altitude. They were getting away. Shit. One swooped in low and paused on an invisible eddy in the wind. He took aim, letting his arm drift with the motion of the bird, and squeezed. He heard a thocking sound immediately following the deafening report. The bird crumpled and plunged to the ground. It was to be Ortman’s first and last vulture kill.
“Whooee!” he shouted. He hopped around doing a vict
ory jig. In his elation, he failed to see the tall man and his sidekick walking in their direction.
The vulture lay in a smashed and bloody mess, its body nearly torn in half. Ortman poked at it with his foot. Ugly thing, he thought, and a lot smaller lying here on the ground all broken up. It was a really good shot, that was for sure. What he needed was to try the gun out on something bigger.
Seth Parker and John Gilman were within hailing distance of Walter Ortman and his companion. “Keep an eye on the other one. Let me talk to the shooter,” Parker intoned, as he raised his hand in greeting. “How’re you doing?” he said, raising his voice.
Ortman cupped a hand to his ear, not bothering to hide his annoyance at being interrupted.
“How’re you doing?” Parker shouted against the wind, the boyish smile in place.
“Fine,” Ortman said. He waited. “What’s on your mind?”
“Didn’t I see you just kill a turkey vulture?”
“Yeah. You see that? Knocked him right out of the sky.” The wind whipped at Ortman’s clothing, blowing in great damp gusts, wet with the rain that had fallen half a mile away.
“Hey, what kind of cap is that?” Parker said, suddenly changing the subject.
“Brotherhood of American Sportsmen,” Ortman said, swelling with pride. He was the newest member.
“Oh,” Parker said. “I’m just wondering why.”
“Why what?” Ortman sneered.
“Why you killed the vulture.” Parker paused, looking sort of sad. “They mate for life, you know.”
“Jesus Christ, another bird hugger?” He grinned over at his companion.
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