Shadows of Death

by David Sundstrand

  “Well, we know the name of the town wasn’t Red Mountain, so the original had to refer to someplace else. It wouldn’t make sense to change the name of the town from Osdick to Red Mountain because then the directions would still work,” Bill Jerome put in.

  “That’s right, Bill. There’s not that many towns out here, so all we have to do is start running them down. Follow the directions from Cerro Gordo, Darwin, or Ballarat,” Shaw grinned.

  “Don’t forget Skidoo,” Collins added.

  “Let’s start with Darwin.” Excitement crept into Shaw’s voice.

  “So how big an area are we talking about?” Jerome wondered aloud.

  “Well, boys, I’d say we’re down to two or three hundred square miles, give or take a foot or two.” Collins grinned.

  “Shit,” Shaw said in disgust.

  “Knowing where not to look saves a lot of looking, Ben.” He smiled at his comrades. “We might stand a chance.”

  “What makes you think so, Jack?” Jerome’s voice was laden with doubt.

  “Like I said, we can narrow it down. A lot of places can be eliminated. Then we search for it systematically. It’ll take time, and hell, boys, that’s in our favor.” The expression of bonhomie had returned to Collins’s wide face. “There’s nothing like gold fever to keep you going. Makes the impossible possible. Shaw’s still hoping to find a woman who thinks he’s good-looking.”

  “Screw you, Jack.” Shaw was smiling in anticipation.

  The wind had picked up and threatened to blow away their precious forged papers. They rose, cleaned up after themselves, and crossed the blacktop toward Ben Shaw’s late-model Chevy truck.

  “Maybe part of the map is true,” Shaw said. “Maybe it was based on an original.”

  “Could be. We can check it out against the directions, once we find the right town.” Collins laughed

  “We could ask that geologist that’s sweet on Linda, Kevin McGuire, about likely spots. He used to work the Carlin Trend over in Nevada for one of the big companies.”

  “Why bring him into it?” Shaw grumbled.

  “Well, he’s been calling the bar for Linda since he lent her his jeep. I thought he just wanted to apologize, but turns out he wanted to know where she found this.” Collins drew a fist-sized piece of pinkish quartz from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

  Jerome picked up the rock with long fingers and turned it in the sunlight. His thin lips puckered into a low whistle. “Where did she get it, Jack?”

  “Where the jeep broke down.” His smile broadened. “Somewhere north of Darwin, boys, up by the Talc Mine Road. That might be someplace that’d fit the letter.”

  The storm had not been kind to the billboard of Jesus blessing the travelers. The remaining arm raised in benediction had been swept away, leaving the disembodied Savior limbless and the words of scripture reduced to . . . RIVERS OF LIVING WATER. If they had thought about it, it made better sense now, but they were thinking about rivers of gold.

  39

  •

  Dave Meecham had left a message asking Frank to stop by his office. When Meecham abandoned the phone for face time, it usually meant something was up. A week had passed since Parker had made his third escape, if you counted Frank’s near miss in Bodfish. Since then, silence. Parker hadn’t bothered to post Charlie Stuller’s death on the MDG Web site. Frank wondered if killing Stuller had been too personal, his death being a matter of revenge rather than an object lesson. Frank speculated that Parker was off tracking down the targets on his hit list. He wanted to be done with it, have it be someone else’s worry, like Novak and Ellis, ever eager to track down an intrepid terrorist and score points with the home office.

  Even though their botched effort to trap the Sandman had failed to put Parker in the hands of the law, the physical action and the aftermath had left Frank little time for brooding. After the burro killings had resumed, he had become morose, drinking too much and thinking about what a sorry lot the naked apes were, with their constant chatter and violence.

  His father had drunk himself to death, unable to deal with the grief of losing Frank’s mother. Frank knew he was afraid of that, of becoming a cliché: drunken Irishman or drunken Indian, take your pick. When it came to drink, genetics wasn’t on his side.

  One of his dad’s pals, trying to jar Frank’s father out of his downward slide, had called him an alcoholic. Instead of placing a fist in his pal’s nose, the usual solution for the elder Flynn, his father had smiled without humor. “Never call me an alcoholic again,” he’d said in a flat tone. “Alcoholics shit their pants. I don’t shit my pants. I’m a drunk,” he’d added with a crooked grin. They had all laughed, but the fourteen-year-old Frank, who had witnessed the exchange from the cupola of their home in the caboose, was ashamed. He never told anyone about his dad’s definition of an alcoholic. He kept painful memories safely inside, where they could gnaw at his innards without interference.

  He’d picked Parker for sniper training because the kid was a natural with firearms and because of the killing of the cow. When Parker had become so upset at the brutal slaughter of the poor beast that tears streamed down his cheeks, he became a target for the bullies in the training platoon.

  In a world where pity and weakness were synonyms, compassion was suspect. Frank couldn’t fix it, but sending Parker to sniper training was an attempt to rectify Parker’s vulnerability. Frank kept his own tears inside. Indians and Irishmen didn’t cry. Because he had the stripes and the skills, Frank was exempt from ridicule. What Stuller and his kind saw as pathetic weakness in Parker, Frank recognized as a tender heart. Frank had played no small part in Parker’s transformation from an innocent into a professional bringer of death. Frank had thought Parker needed something to keep the bullies at bay. Now Parker, the all-American boy with the Huck Finn grin, had turned professional killer: first for his country, then in revenge for all the cruelty and horror humanity perpetrated against the innocent.

  Snipers had the equivalent of a black belt in marksmanship. They were respected because they were feared. They avoided capture at all costs because they were so hated that capture often meant torture. How sweet the human condition.

  In Iraq, Parker’s army buddies had dubbed him the Sandman because he took out more of the enemy than an infantry platoon. The gentle heart made deadly, shrinking and dying with each killing, until it had hardened into an alien husk. There was no going back. The innocent kid was gone. What remained of Parker was without future. I am in so far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. Frank laughed silently. Everything was Shakespearean, if you waited long enough.

  He tapped gently on Dave Meecham’s door.

  “Take a seat.” Meecham gestured vaguely at the battered chairs in front of his desk.

  Frank sat. “What’s up, Dave?”

  “More Sand Canyon stuff. The opening is less than two weeks away. Their operations guy, Campbell, thinks you’re the man,” Meecham said, getting right to the point. “You did a good job with those people, Frank, and you know the reward for good work—more work, right?” Dave smiled. “For some unaccountable reason, both Marshall and Campbell called to say how much they like you, so you’re the official liaison to Sand Canyon.”

  Frank straightened his shoulders. “Frank Flynn, ambassador without portfolio.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for not griping.” Meecham ran a hand through sandy hair. “If you can make some time, drop in on Greg.”

  “Linda and I saw him yesterday. He’s got the young volunteer nursing assistants hanging around his room. I think he likes being a wounded hero.”

  Meecham sighed. “It’s better that you hear this from me. Parker’s been busy again. No red herring this time. By the way, the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department broke up a big dogfighting ring. They’re still digging up dog bodies. They found a large stash of dope as well—meth, pot, and crack, one-stop shopping. So Parker wasn’t blowing smoke.” Meecham paused, waiting for Frank to appreciate his joke. “
Get it, wasn’t blowing smoke.”

  Frank chuckled absently. “I guess I’m slow on the uptake today.”

  “Hell, it was wasted, and you know how often I think of shit like that.” He shook his head. “In any case, I’d say you have a first-rate informant until the FBI catches up with him. He’ll use law enforcement to take down the stuff in one place while he’s taking out the people on his list. His list, wish we could see that,” Meecham reflected. “Unfortunately, the owner of the dog pit wasn’t on hand. Maybe Parker will find him before the San Bernardino sheriffs do.” Meecham’s smile was grim.

  “Careful what you wish for, Dave,” Frank said, his voice flat.

  Meecham paused. “Yeah, I know, but when the assholes kill each other off, you can’t help but think it’s a win-win.” Meecham shook his head in silent refutation. “Anyhow, looks like he’s still working on his list. A couple of high school kids in Bakersfield had their mouths blown away with blasting caps. One of them didn’t make it. The other one’s pretty messed up from what I gather.”

  “They sure it’s Parker?”

  “Who else? Novak called from over in Oildale. That’s just north of Bakersfield. He wanted to talk to you about your conversation with Parker and the cats he told you and Ms. Reyes about.” Meecham caught Frank’s eyes. “They haven’t a hundred percent let go of blaming you—old army buddies, guilt by association.”

  Frank nodded. “I can’t say as I blame them.” Meecham was about to speak, but Frank cut him off. “Yeah, I know. How is it my fault? I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Anyhow, how did he find the teenagers?” Frank said.

  “When they blew the heads off the cats a couple months back, they were dumb enough to make a video of it and post it on the Net, with them in it. Their faces weren’t showing, but I guess there was enough in the tape to give Parker a line on them.” Meecham shook his head. “They had to have their fifteen minutes of fame.” He looked up, his face filled with disgust. “God only knows what they thought was there to be proud of.”

  “Anyhow, Novak thinks Parker’s partner picked the kids up and drove them out to an oil field, where they met Parker. They duct-taped the blasting caps into their mouths. Wrapped their whole heads in tape, lit the fuses, and turned them lose, same as the boys did to the cats. It hasn’t turned up on the MDG Web site yet. If and when it does, all hell will break loose.” He shook his head. “To top it off, no one knows squat about his partner.” He glanced at Frank. “Except for Ms. Reyes. It turns out she’s the only one who’s seen him.”

  “That may be true. I hope he doesn’t come to the same conclusion,” Frank said.

  “Novak says with high school kids getting blown up, the FBI is really feeling the pressure, and they’re frustrated as hell. Parker seems to be invisible, and like I said, they don’t know squat about his partner. Give Novak a call, fill him in again, and then let it go. He’s not our problem anymore.” He raised a tired face. “Who needs it?”

  Between the Border Patrol and the BLM, Dave had better than twenty-five years of service. He had remarried several years ago, and his wife loved to camp and travel. She had told Linda that she and Dave planned to buy a small motor home and go gypsying around the country for a couple of years before moving up to Bishop. Frank hated to think of Dave retiring. Dave was the best boss he’d ever had, and Dave was his friend.

  “You think he’d take on something like Sand Canyon?” Meecham asked.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” Frank said.

  “It seems like the kind of thing he might go after. An attack on Sand Canyon would make the news in a big way. What do you think? Could he pull it off?” Meecham said in a soft voice.

  “Once he’s in position, the terrain is perfect for a sniper. On the other hand, it would be suicidal. Withdrawal would be next to impossible. Water would be a problem if he went back into the mountains. Down in the valley, he’d be too exposed. With the Inyo County sheriff’s office being so close, it’s unlikely he could get out before they’d be all over him.”

  “From what you say, Sand Canyon is an armed camp,” Meecham said.

  “I think that part would be appealing to Parker—the most dangerous game, and all that—and the truth of it is, I think Sand Canyon security would be overmatched. Parker’s the best of the best.” Frank paused in thought. “Ewan Campbell might pose a challenge. He’s trained, but I doubt if he’s had to deal with snipers.”

  “A challenge, huh?” Dave studied the man he’d worked with for eight years.

  “Parker would think of it that way,” Frank responded.

  “Sniper training’s that good, huh?”

  “Yup, that good.”

  “Give the Sand Canyon people a heads-up and share our concern with Novak when you talk with him. I’ll talk with Dewey and spare your ear.”

  40

  •

  “The big man in the safari hat is Ewan Campbell.” Parker and his protégé, John Gilman, lay on the crest of the western arm of Sand Canyon, overlooking the ranch house and parking area. “See him?”

  “Yeah, I see him,” Gilman said. “I can see his nose hairs.” He was bent over a spotting scope.

  Parker was using binoculars on a small tripod. “Remember, you’ll be using the scope on the .50 with a limited field of vision, and things will be busy.”

  “I’ll be able to recognize him, no problem.”

  “Good. If you see him, take him out before he takes you out.”

  “Why him?”

  “He worked with a security firm in South Africa as a private contractor. Think of it as have gun, will travel.”

  “Soldier of fortune,” Gilman murmured in a respectful tone.

  “Killer without a country,” Parker said under his breath. Like us, he thought. “That’s right, they draw good pay for putting people down, all legal at taxpayer expense.” Parker rolled away from his binoculars, making eye contact with his eager pupil. “So shoot him if you see him.” He pushed on the right side of his head. The pain was constant now, barely under control. The medication hadn’t taken effect yet. “When Campbell hears the .50, he’ll come looking for you.”

  He waited for the pain to subside to a bearable level. If he made it through Saturday’s operation, he would have to increase the dosage, even though it tended to screw up his vision. “We’ll need to make sure the canyon is blocked first. Then there will be time for taking out individuals, but only if we optimize the tactical advantage.” The pain was receding. “Lay it out, John. It’s what we did in the field, over and over, so we didn’t have to think about it or get confused when things went chaotic. They will go chaotic, so we need to control first events. Lay it out.”

  “You’ll be up here where you can cover the back area and the sheds. I’ll be on the other side, overlooking the front of the ranch house and covering the gate. At twelve o’clock, I start taking out vehicles.”

  “And?”

  “I make sure the dead cars block the exit. Absolutely sure.”

  “Good.” Parker nodded. “That’s key. Then we wait a bit. After that, the parking lot, the grounds, blinds, everything becomes the killing field.” The boyish features were hard. “You take the blinds and ranch house. Ranch house first. Drive them out into the rear parking area. The incendiary rounds should do their work. Then take the blinds. At this range the armor-piercing will bounce around inside those cement boxes like killer bees. If any of them make it out, I’ll be waiting.” He turned and scanned the area. It looked like Campbell was heading for a vehicle. Parker returned his attention to John Gilman. “Then what?”

  “We leave. Twenty minutes after the first shot, we leave. I stash the .50, in the cache by the rocks. Ride the motorcycle back to the motor home by the bass ponds and go fishing.”

  Parker frowned. “What about the bike?”

  “I dump it in one of the pockets near the old riverbed before I get to the motor home.”

  “Good. Don’t forget. If you get checked out, and you probab
ly will, the engine compartment of the motor home will be cold. The refrigerator is full of beer and food for a weekend. Everything will check out. A motorcycle with a hot engine is a giveaway.” He smiled. “You’ll be okay. You’ll be hiding in plain sight. They miss that.” Parker lifted pale red eyebrows. “So have I left anything out?”

  John Gilman tapped his shirt pocket. “Be sure my fishing license is where it can be seen.”

  Parker smiled. “Bingo.”

  Gilman regarded his mentor. The headaches had been coming on harder and more often. He was worried. “You going to be okay hiking out?”

  “One way or another.” Parker grinned. Huck Finn was back. “Yeah, I think so. Sometimes moving around eases the headache. It’s only a couple miles to my motorbike. Then I’m in the clear. Dirt track to the Westgard Pass road, then 395 to the Mount Whitney Fish Hatchery. I’ll call you from the picnic area. Like before.” He stared down at the ranch and outbuildings. “I’m going to give Sergeant Flynn a call, see if I can draw the BLM over to the Carrizo Plain. If they think civilians are in harm’s way, they’ll have to check it out, even if they suspect it’s another false lead.”

  Parker returned the binoculars to their battered leather case. “If you don’t hear from me by the following morning, go home.” He raised his face. “Whatever happens, we keep the MDG going. I meant to get more done, more people with us. So it’s going to rest with you, John.” He smiled, the young-old face looking very tired.

  41

  •

  Frank wondered how long the call light on his phone had been flashing. He’d turned the volume off months ago. He hated the sound of a ringing phone, always intrusive and usually a prelude to bad news. It pulsed away, insistently demanding his attention.