Shadows of Death

by David Sundstrand

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said.” The naked man picked up a grungy pair of blue jeans and put them on, hunching his butt back, pulling his penis out of sight. He grinned. “Adios, anteater.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The Indian nodded in agreement with himself.

  Parker heard a tinkling sound.

  “That’s right. Most white guys been trimmed.” Eddie looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I don’t get it. Why the hell would a man cut part of his dick off?” He held up a hand. “No offense, man,”—the nodding head began to shake back and forth, the tinkling sound more distinct—“but it’s a mystery to me.” Then Parker caught the flash of the silver bell tied to the end of the man’s hair.

  He was wasting time. “The truck—”

  The Indian interrupted again. “Yeah, it’s mine.” Eddie wished it were so. “Pretty fine, huh?”

  “Yes, it is,” Parker replied. “I’m going to have to borrow it.”

  “No way, man. I don’t lend my vehicle to anyone.” The Indian gestured toward the truck with his head. “That’s a classic. Besides, why the hell would I lend my truck to someone I don’t know?”

  “Because I’m not giving you a choice.” Parker produced the Woodsman. “If you don’t make things difficult, I won’t have to shoot you.” He looked down at Eddie, his eyes tinged green by the yellow shooting glasses. “But I haven’t time for delays.”

  The Indian’s black eyes were bright, his face impassive. He nodded slowly, the bell tolling his understanding in a small silver voice.

  “Good. Where are the keys?”

  “In the truck.”

  “Is the truck gassed up?”

  “I guess.”

  “How about additional gas? Cans?”

  “Nope.” Eddie cast a surreptitious glance at the shed.

  Parker gave Eddie his boyish grin. “Don’t take up poker.”

  “Shit.” Eddie knew he’d given himself away.

  “Keys?”

  “In the ignition. I already said, okay? You want me to start it for you?”

  Parker studied the Indian. “Is this your place?”

  “I’m just here to look after the stock.”

  “Oh.” Parker frowned. “Have you done that yet?”

  “Yeah, why? What’re you, my boss?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that.” He looked at the Indian’s weathered face. There was something compelling about the small man. Maybe it was because he wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was because of the bell. He wasn’t sure. “Show me the telephone, please.”

  The Indian laughed. “You’re kidding?”

  “I don’t kid.”

  The Indian gave him a sideways look. “Haven’t been inside yet.”

  “Well, then, let’s go inside.” Parker gestured at the door with the Woodsman. He had to stoop as he followed the Indian through the low opening. Dim light filtered into the one large room from a single window through a draped bedsheet. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he was surprised to find the place exceptionally clean, even Spartan.

  A stoneware water jug rested on the end of a long wooden kitchen table. Pots and pans and cooking utensils hung from a wire rack along the far side. The Indian gave the knives hanging from the hooks a covert glance.

  Parker shook his head. “Sit on the bed. Don’t move, and don’t forget about not being an impediment.”

  The Indian gave him a quizzical look.

  “Not making trouble,” Parker explained. He began opening and closing drawers in a tall cabinet next to the table. “I think you’d better lie facedown on the bed.”

  “You’ve got the gun.”

  Parker turned to face the Indian, his eyes absent behind the reflected light on his sunglasses. The Indian sighed, flopped facedown on the bed, and spread his arms and legs. “How’s this?”

  “That’ll do.” Parker returned to opening and closing the drawers. He lifted a length of nylon clothesline from the bottom drawer. “Now’s the time for you to be especially cooperative.” He cut four pieces of clothesline and tied loops into each of the ends. Then he crossed the room and laid them next to the Indian. “Okay, you can sit up now.”

  The Indian glared at the pieces of clothesline.

  “Put a loop over each wrist and ankle.” He waited while the Indian slipped the loops into place. “Good. Lie back down on your stomach.” Parker placed the muzzle of the Woodsman behind the Indian’s ear. “Careful now.” Then he secured the free end of each line to the metal bed frame. He stepped away and surveyed his efforts. “That should do it.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “In your place I would be making an effort to be polite—or at least a nonirritant.” Parker smiled. “That’s not easy for you, is it?” He held up a hand. “Never mind. I’ve got to be going, no time for conversation.” He turned back. “Oh, by the way, the reason I didn’t shoot you is that you’re taking care of the animals—and the bell. I like the bell.”

  They both turned toward the sound of an automobile engine. Parker stooped down to look out the window. “Are you expecting a visitor?”

  “What’s he driving?” The Indian’s head faced the low wall.

  “A large brown van.”

  The Indian laughed. “You bought into some trouble, asshole.”

  Parker swung the Woodsman around, aiming it at the Indian’s head. “You need to be quiet now, or you’ll be quiet permanently.” His head was starting to hurt. “If the keys aren’t in the truck, I’ll be back to shoot you.” He was at the door in two long strides. He eased it open a few inches and peered into the sunlit landscape. Then he slipped out into the shade of the porch and crossed the yard toward the stolen red truck. He needed it one more time.

  •

  Tucker stopped the van as soon as he saw the second truck down by the house. He recognized the BLM ranger’s personal vehicle, a ’53 Chevy pickup, but he didn’t know anyone with a red pickup. What the hell was going on? Some jerk had left the gate open. Flynn wouldn’t leave the gate open. First thing you learned living in open country was close the gate behind you, otherwise stock wandered off, got lost or stolen, or hit by automobiles. While he was looking down at his place, the door opened and a tall thin man walked across the yard toward the red truck. He looked up at Tucker and waved a long arm, got in the truck, and fired it up.

  Tucker watched as the truck made its way up the grade, gathering speed as it came. Too much speed. Tucker swung around to get his rifle and remembered that it wasn’t there. He scrambled toward the back of the van and was looking for a shovel, something to use as a weapon, when an impact to the side of the van drove him to the floor. He regained his feet; a second smashing blow knocked him down again. Then he realized what the skinny guy was trying to do. He was pushing him off the cutback. The third impact shoved the van over the edge. It tilted to the right, then plunged down the cutback, carrying Tucker and Jack-the-dog with it.

  34

  •

  Frank watched the copter blow by on the way to Hunter Mountain to pick up the dead and the wounded. Dave Meecham and Jesse Sierra had elected to stay behind and wait with Greg Wilson for the helicopter to pick him up.

  The cell phone had come back to life over the hill on the approach to Highway 190, and he’d called in the emergency to the BLM and then the Inyo sheriffs. The plane from the California Highway Patrol was refueling in Ridgecrest. Having alerted the county, he doubled back to go after Parker. The Inyo sheriffs were on the way to evacuate Greg Wilson, and the Highway Patrol, the Forest Service, every available agency was out looking for Parker. One of their own had been wounded.

  They had a complete description of Parker and the vehicle, including the license number, which Greg Wilson had jotted down while he was backing off the unlucky men in the red pickup. The wheels were turning. Now Frank was free to reverse direction and get to Parker before he killed someone else.

  The surviving victim of the
hijacking, Howard Poe, said he and his friend had been sitting on the tailgate of their truck when this tall guy comes up, wants to use their truck, and when they say no way, he shoots Colin, just like that. “Then he tells me, ‘There’s a hole in your friend’s chest,’ and drives away—waves good-bye.”

  Frank’s warning to the two men had been prophetic. Poe was lucky to be alive. Killing was coming easier to Parker. The rules were out of it. The killing in Pasadena must have been a tipping point. Doing murder had become matter-of-fact. Frank slammed over a pothole, and the heavy SUV broke into a slide. He turned into it, hitting the gas, and the vehicle straightened out, racing toward a blind curve, much too fast. He hit the brakes, slowing the vehicle down to a manageable speed. Parker had more than a two-hour head start into the Saline Valley. He didn’t want to miss him again, but he didn’t want to wind up over some embankment cursing himself for being a fool.

  Both ends of the Saline Valley Road were plugged. If Parker tried to get out through the Westgard Pass road, a redheaded man in a red truck would be hard to miss. If he doubled back, he’d run into Frank. It was what Frank hoped. If he could stop Parker, maybe it would make up for giving him his start all those years ago.

  35

  •

  As soon as Eddie’s captor went out the door, he began working on the line holding his left wrist. It was nylon, so he knew there wasn’t a ghost of a chance of breaking it, but his hands were tied to the iron bed frame with his left hand near one of the coiled springs that supplied tension to the wire net that held up the mattress of the old army cot. Where the springs attached to the frame, they bent back and ended in sharp points. Eddie dragged the cord across one of the points and snapped a couple of strands. He repeated the process until he was more than halfway through and then tried to break the rest. It wouldn’t give. He went back to a few strands at a time.

  The man had taken Frank’s truck, and Eddie had to get it back. If he lost Frank’s truck, too, he couldn’t go back to the Joshua Tree Athletic Club—ever. He’d have to leave the valley. People would laugh at him. Or worse, feel sorry for him, like they used to feel sorry for dumb Doug Funmaker. He worked at the cord. Finally it gave way. It seemed like it had taken a long time, but he’d worked loose in under fifteen minutes.

  He trotted up the hill to where the red pickup sat with its smashed grill pointing over the embankment and looked down on Tucker’s van. It didn’t look that bad. Tucker’s dog was probably all right. He could hear him howling, which made Eddie wonder about the state of the owner. He scrambled down to the van at about the same time Tucker emerged from the rear doors with blood in his eye.

  Zeke Tucker had returned to consciousness at the insistence of Jack-the-dog. Tucker was the source of all things good in Jack’s doggy life, so he licked Tucker’s face until he woke up. The big man carefully pulled himself into a sitting position, piecing together what had happened. He remembered being rammed by a red truck. He pictured a tall, thin man striding across his front yard to the truck, giving him a casual wave as if they knew each other. That had thrown him off. He didn’t know him—the son of a bitch. Then the stranger had rammed his truck into the van and pushed him over the embankment.

  Tucker’s hand strayed absently to the side of his head—tender, and it wasn’t the only place. The stranger had lifted his hand against him, and the giant meant to answer the injury. “Come on, Jack.” He kicked open the rear doors that he had so recently wired shut and emerged filled with fury into the desert, where he encountered the little Indian.

  “You the guy watching the animals?” he said.

  “Yeah, you okay?” Eddie asked.

  “Never better.” Tucker strode down the hill toward one of the sheds scattered around his property with Eddie in his wake. He pulled open the door on the largest shed and yanked away a blue plastic tarp covering a Yamaha ATV. It fired up at the first touch. He thumped both gas cans strapped to the sides with his forefinger to check for content and straddled the machine. Jack jumped up on the platform behind his master. He loved going for a ride.

  “Where you going?” Eddie shouted as Tucker pulled away.

  “ ‘I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes.’ ” Tucker bellowed in stentorian rage.

  “Wait, God damn it!” Eddie yelled. “You don’t even have a gun.” His voice was swallowed up in the blat of the ATV’s exhaust.

  36

  •

  The truck Parker had taken from the Indian had an almost full tank. Even better, it wasn’t a red truck, and they would be looking for a red truck driven by a man with red hair. His hair was under a straw hat, and he was in a vintage forest green Chevy truck. It would be a while before they found the Indian. That might give him the margin of time he needed.

  He thought of the man wearing the praying cowboy T-shirt, staring at him from the trees, eyes big as saucers. That one would remember him for a very long time, and he would provide a detailed description of a man with brown hair. He didn’t want them to know he had dyed his hair. He probably should have killed him, too—Howie. It was harder to kill someone once you knew his name, except for that pig Stuller. That had been a pleasure. He had hesitated to kill the other man, Howie, because he was a civilian, essentially a bystander. On the other hand, the law enforcement people had their hands full and might not take a statement right away, especially since they thought they had a positive identification of the stolen truck and knew who the driver was: Seth Adrian Parker, aged thirty-seven, six feet five inches, eyes blue, hair red. They would still be looking for that man, and in a stolen red truck. All he needed was a bit of luck.

  He’d been making good time on the road through the Saline Valley, hitting fifty on the graded parts, throwing up a white plume of alkaline dust. Here, where the road climbed up out of the valley, it was slower going. The road narrowed, and the storm had turned it into a boulder-strewn washout, forcing him to slow down as he threaded his way through the debris. Rock cliffs angled up from the west side in oval slabs of the lightest gray, blending into tans and dirty yellows streaked with deep volcanic browns.

  He braked sharply to avoid a jagged rock, and that was when the sticks of dynamite slid out from under the seat. He stared at the brown, paper-clad rolls on the floor of the cab, not comprehending at first. Then it fell into place. Dynamite. He stopped the truck and searched under the seat looking for caps, wondering if there was a detonator. Then he rummaged through the glove compartment and discovered the blasting caps and fusing. Old-fashioned stuff, but it would do the job. He could slow down his pursuers, at least on this end of the pursuit.

  •

  Except for the ticking sound of the cooling engine, the canyon was filled with an oppressive silence. The air was still and hot, humid yet from the thunderstorms. He heard the soft sound of his breath, and for a moment, he was overcome with weariness. He wanted to just sit there and wait for Flynn to show up. He knew it would be him. Who else? Who else would have laid the trap? He shouldn’t have baited Sergeant Flynn about how unprofessional the Bureau of Land Management had been. Now he was probably behind him—coming fast.

  He pushed down on the door handle and stepped hurriedly away from the comfort of the truck, stumbling, nearly falling down among the rocks. The canyon wall angled high above him, impassive stone monoliths, silent witnesses to his movements.

  First assess the situation, he reminded himself. He had his rifle and the remainder of two boxes of ammunition. Three rounds fired at the BLM ranger left a total of thirty-seven rounds, enough to make a stand should that become necessary. There was also the Woodsman, full clip less one, plus the remainder of the box of hollow points.

  Being alone in a desert was nothing new. Solitude was the sniper’s ally. His lassitude was no more than an understandable reaction to the recent violence. He’d had to kill someone again and had nearly been killed himself. Now he was coming down from it, the adrenaline rush abating, the headache returning.

  The man he shot in t
he chest really hadn’t stood a chance, not with an expanding round entering resistant heart muscle. He shrugged. Somehow it seemed not to make as much difference anymore. He searched his feelings for sorrow, guilt, regret—nothing. Somewhere he’d read that an absence of guilt was the mark of a sociopath. He didn’t think of himself as a sociopath. He was acting on behalf of the defenseless, bringing balance. He had spared the Indian, despite his nasty mouth—perhaps because of his nasty mouth, but more probably because the Indian had come to take care of the animals. He nodded to himself. He was letting his mind drift again.

  He quickly picked up the dynamite, blasting caps, and fuse and stuffed it all in his shirt. As he stepped into the high heat of the canyon floor, he experienced a flash of pain followed by a wave of nausea. Not yet, he thought. He turned away from the glaring light and followed his shadow until it merged into the deeper shade of the canyon walls. He scrambled over the rocky ground into a westerly ravine, where it opened into hot shafts of afternoon sun. The heat radiated into the wash, blurring the landscape into shimmering waves. He stopped to wipe his forehead. The pain had subsided to a bearable level.

  On the left, the road came from behind a large shoulder of rock where the overhanging cliff face divided into odd oval slabs stacked on edge like giant plates. At that point, the wash left the road and disappeared into a narrow gorge on the left. He worked his way up the wash and approached the overhanging rocks from the backside.

  Parker stood at the summit, evaluating the position. He began to question whether the dynamite would take down enough rock to block the road. As if to confirm his doubts about the tactical disadvantages of the location, the sound of an approaching engine echoed up from the canyon below.

  An ATV topped the approach leading into the narrows. He lifted his binoculars and tracked the sunlit portion of the road until the ATV jumped into view. A very large man straddled the vehicle. A gray and white dog perched on the rear platform.