Shadows of Death

by David Sundstrand

  “Frank Flynn.” He spoke softly.

  “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  Frank didn’t respond.

  “No more Stuller, Sarge. Ding, dong, the prick is dead, in case you didn’t know.”

  Frank remained silent.

  “We played the cow game.” Parker’s voice vibrated with muted triumph. “He crawled and bellowed, and I shot at him. You kept yelling for it to stop—you were there in spirit—but you remember, everyone was deaf.”

  “What’re you doing, Parker, trying to make things right? Forget it. You killed a couple of kids. That’s murder, pure and simple. What happened to all the big ideas about protecting innocent creatures?”

  “Nobody’s innocent except the animals, Sergeant. As for Stuller, he killed the town pet in Bodfish. The townspeople consider me a hero, or will, when they know my name.”

  They were both silent.

  “I don’t believe in hell anymore, Sergeant, but I wish it existed because there are so many people who need to be there. So just in case we end up drifting in space like Laika, you remember Laika, the dog the Russians sent up to die in space, well, I gave Stuller a taste, you know, like purgatory. He begged like a baby. He mooed and bellowed almost as good as the cow. Maybe that’s what I’ll hear in my head at night instead of the cow.”

  “Did you ever talk to anyone at the VA about it?”

  “About hearing the cow in my head? Come on, Sarge, how would that sound? I’ve got this movie in my head, keeps playing over and over, and who would give a shit—except maybe you? Down deep, you’re as glad as I am that that son of a bitch Stuller is dead. I sent him to hell, and part of you is doing a little dance. Never mind denying it. You’re a lot like me, Sarge. I don’t know what plays in your head at night, but I bet you see it struggling to regain its feet and hear the hoots and shooting.”

  Frank didn’t respond. He couldn’t deny Parker’s words, no matter how much he wanted to erase the memory.

  “Now here’s the reason I called, not that it’s not good talking things over with you. When I was passing through Tehachapi on my way to visit our old army buddy, I found out there’s going to be a hunt for junior license holders. Start ’em young so they can find their inner Cain. You know, a family that kills together stays together, family values and all that. Hey! There’re Christian hunting clubs. Did you know that?” Parker chuckled in anticipation of his next witticism. “I wonder what Jesus packs? My guess is that he just points his finger and it’s zappo-deado. Like father, like son. Anyhow, Team MDG is going to sort them out. Nits make lice, Sergeant. See ya.” The line went dead before Frank had a chance to respond.

  He slowly put the phone down, his mind turning over Parker’s warning. Why would Parker pick an organized hunt for juveniles sponsored by Fish and Game? They were children, but Parker had slipped over the edge. He hadn’t hesitated to maim the high school kids who had blown up the cats. They’d have to move on it. Maybe that was the point.

  42

  •

  Frank carried two cups of coffee out to the rear platform of the caboose, where Linda sat wrapped in a blanket against the morning chill. She was not a morning person. Frank was irritatingly cheerful and awake in the mornings, full of conversation, wisecracks, even song. He had learned to soften this congeniality until Linda had fully emerged from the arms of Morpheus. “Arms of Morpheus” was the sort of thing that came to him in the mornings and the sort of thing that she found particularly irritating. This morning was different.

  The afterimages of a dream haunted his waking hours.

  In the dream he scrambled up a talus-strewn slope, fleeing from a creature he could not name. Even though he knew it, he had no name for it. His legs trembled with fatigue. The thing leapt behind him with fluid ease. Above him, Winnedumah watched impassively from his stone prison.

  In the way of dreams, Frank watched both his struggling doppelgänger and the dark figure in effortless pursuit. He prayed, promising to attend mass with his mother every Sunday, anything that would save him from the relentless figure, but his voice was swept away by the wind. There was only emptiness, and the sunlight was filled with darkness and the utter stillness of the void. Then a soft wind brushed the land, and Coyote trotted along the ridge of the mountains. He turned yellow eyes on Frank; his tongue lolled out of his great mouth, and he laughed a laugh like a clap of thunder. Frank awoke to the sound of rain beating on the roof of the caboose.

  The dream left him feeling hollow and fearful. Long ago, he had read Erich Fromm’s The Forgotten Language, and it was as if he’d been given a key to his dreams, but the key to this dream remained hidden. Thinking of the thing that chased him, so animated and energetic as it leapt up the slope, made him shudder with revulsion, but when he tried to look at it, remember it in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t see its features to know what it was. It was a thing unnamed.

  “No song in your heart this morning, Flynnman.” Linda pulled the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Bad dream.”

  “What kind of a bad dream?”

  “It’s all mixed up. It didn’t make any sense.”

  “Great. I tell you about my dreams, and now you hold back.”

  “When did you tell me about your dreams?”

  “Haven’t had any lately, but I would if I had them.” She sipped her coffee, keeping her eyes on Frank over the rim of the cup.

  “Okay, I was being chased up in the Inyo Mountains by something—I’m not sure what—but I didn’t want it to catch me.” He paused, making sure he had eye contact. He didn’t want her to laugh. “Winnedumah was watching from his stone prison, but he couldn’t do anything.”

  “Being a three-hundred-foot rock doesn’t help.”

  Frank frowned and went silent.

  “Okay, okay. I was enjoying the tables being turned. Cheerful Linda, crabby Frank.”

  He turned to her, his face solemn. “I prayed, begging for help, but there was none. Then Coyote came, looked at me, and laughed. That’s when the thunder woke us.” He didn’t want to tell her about being alone in the void. He felt that if he talked about it, it would come and swallow him up, swallow Linda up, everything would be gone, and he would float endlessly in the darkness.

  She took his hand in hers. It was cool and dry. “What’s bothering you?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe you shouldn’t come to Sand Canyon on Saturday. Parker called me in Ridgecrest yesterday afternoon. He said the MDG was going to go after the junior hunting license holders that Fish and Game sponsors. They take them through safety instruction, weapons management, that sort of thing. Then they take them on a hunt. There’s one in the Carrizo Plains this weekend.”

  Linda nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “Last time he gave us a warning, he said he was going to be in Barstow. Instead, he was over in Bodfish killing Stuller.”

  “What’s your point, Frank?”

  “What if this time it’s another ruse, and he’s over here killing people at Sand Canyon?”

  “Have you told Dave what you think?”

  “Yes, Dave and the Sand Canyon people. Dave smelled a red herring, too. I talked with Duane Marshall, and he sort of chuckled about it. He said something about his security staff was second to none, trained in South Africa. He said attacking Sand Canyon would be suicide.”

  “What did Ewan Campbell think?”

  “He took it more seriously when I filled him in on Parker’s background. He said he planned to put a couple of men with binoculars and rifles up on the release platforms. He told me some of the guests would have bodyguards, but he made a face. Bodyguards aren’t combat trained. He said something about thick thugs in dark glasses.”

  “Are you going to be there, Frank?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Remember what we said. Equal risks.” She held up her hand. “Let me finish. You know how much research I’ve done? The Sand Canyon people are major assholes, and I’m dropping their drawers.” She dre
w in a breath. “They checked me out, you know that?”

  “How do you mean, checked you out?”

  “They called the Courier. Said they wanted to make sure I worked there. Considered it a matter of security because there will be some important people at the opening, all that bull.”

  “I can believe it. Security is a very big thing for them.”

  “Yeah, well, surprise, Mr. Duane Marshall and company! I’m hoping for a twofer, the Courier and the L.A. Times. Let’s see how he likes them apples.” Linda’s eyes flashed. She was ready to take on the powers that be.

  “So why are they major assholes?”

  “They buy these animals at auction in Africa and other places, but mainly in Africa. Try this. At last year’s auction in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, animals were sold from live displays and a catalog, one thousand six hundred and fifty-one from the catalog. They sell everything from white rhinos and giraffes to zebras and warthogs. The auction netted almost two million dollars. More than twenty-two thousand for a white rhino, more than two thousand for a nyala.”

  “Nyala?”

  “It’s an antelope. It has those long spiral horns that look so great on the wall. Oh, and it’s endangered.”

  “I don’t get it. Two thousand to kill an endangered animal, the price of a television set.” Frank’s jaw muscles clenched. He thought about Marshall wanting to show him the zebras. “Marshall’s operations manager, Ewan Campbell, told me some of the animals are tethered.” He shook his head. “I could tell he didn’t like it much.”

  “He’s there, isn’t he? He’s taking Marshall’s money. He sold out.” She leveled an angry gaze at Frank. “I think they’re cowards, yellow through and through.”

  “You don’t cut people much slack, do you?” Frank said, thinking of himself.

  “I’m still here in Limboland, aren’t I?” Her face was serious.

  “Does this mean you’re not taking the job?” His spirits soared.

  “No, it means I haven’t made up my mind.”

  He wished he hadn’t raised the subject. She marched into the future with a confidence he’d never possessed. The passage of time didn’t bring about much he cared for. Keep it like it was, that was Ed Abbey’s philosophy, and it seemed okay to him.

  43

  •

  There was rebellion in the ranks at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, and Jack Collins’s leadership of the Grumpy Wrench Gang was in jeopardy.

  “He’s a cop. A good guy, but a cop. Jack keeps forgetting that.” Ben Shaw tamped down a recently lit pipe, hot coals flying about.

  “That’s not the point, Ben. It’s because he’s a cop that Jack doesn’t want to stir up trouble and bring it down on Frank,” Bill Jerome offered. They were seated in the high-backed observer chairs that ran along the far wall of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. Morning light filtered in through elevated windows above them, filling the room with a delicate luminescence.

  “Have it your way, Bill, but Jack’s backed off, backed off so far we’ve been sitting on our hands. Hunting for gold mines we can’t find is great stuff, but hunting for the people who crap on the land is righteous.” Shaw tilted his head up at an unyielding angle of self-affirmation.

  “Righteous? Righteous? When did you get religion?” Jerome laughed in mockery.

  Shaw’s expression broke into a grin. “Sounds good, though.” He was clearly unashamed by Bill Jerome’s unmasking. “Besides, it needs doing. Who’s to do it, if we don’t?’

  “Jack gave Frank his word,” Jerome said with finality, staring ahead.

  “Okay, Bill, that’s fine for Jack. Did you give your word?” Shaw raised his hand and pointed a couple of fingers at Jerome. “Just wait a minute.” His voice had taken on an edge. “What makes Jack think he can give someone my word or yours?” Shaw shook has head, the pipe distributing hot ashes onto his shirt.

  Bill Jerome remained silent. They were clearing the moral decks.

  “Yeah, what I thought,” Shaw said. “He can keep his word, just like the rest of us do, but that doesn’t mean Jack speaks for you or me, that we have to abide by the promises he gives out in our name. Well, does it?”

  Jerome stared at the sole snooker table in the room, the balls laid out on the spots, the pink ball in front of a three-ball short rack. It was ten in the morning, two hours before the doors opened. The mornings were theirs. Serious snooker and quiet conversation.

  “Your break,” Jerome said.

  Shaw got to his feet, placed the cue ball next to the two-ball on the balk line, and bent over his cue stick, aiming for the outer edge of the red ball on the right side of the three-ball cluster of reds. Jerome watched as Shaw squinted through the smoke and then stroked the cue ball at medium speed. The cue ball struck the outer edge of the red, angled off to the bottom rail, came back on the side rail, struck the rear rail, and rolled softly forward to snuggle up behind the four-ball. Jerome was snookered.

  Jerome’s chiseled features darkened as he studied the table. “Okay,” he said, “but Jack’s not going to like it.”

  “He’ll get over it, right?” Shaw was without remorse.

  “True, Jack doesn’t hold grudges, but I don’t like going against him without letting him know. And I can’t say as I know what Frank will do. He’ll be between a rock and a hard place.”

  “We tell Jack, and he vetoes it. If it’s after the fact, Jack’s in the clear. As for Frank, he hates these assholes as much as we do. He just can’t do anything about it. He’s the man with the rules. That’s never been our problem.”

  Shaw grinned, even teeth bared through the gray beard. “Can’t you see it? Cars all lined up on the Circle Cross ranch road. Rich guys out there getting their camos all dusty trying to change tires. No auto club to help them out. Awww! The car fell off the jack. Awww! Took out the spare to make room for my sports goodies. Awww! Frank’d do the same thing if he wasn’t a cop.”

  Jerome’s eyes traveled about looking for a place to rest. Shaw had him. The image of the Sand Canyon crowd stacked up along a dirt road with flat tires on the day of the big opening was too appealing to pass up. He nodded in assent.

  “Let’s get the Injun,” Shaw said.

  “Jesus, Ben. Quit calling Eddie the Injun.”

  “Right! Let’s get our red brother, Eddie Redhawk Laguna, the red man’s friend, the white man’s nightmare.”

  Jerome shook his head, but he was smiling. “Eddie might go for it. Get back at the rich white-eyes.”

  “Might? Hell, he’ll strip to a breechclout and paint himself for war.” Shaw assumed a crafty look. “Besides, he has a legitimate beef with canned hunting. He’s descended from a warrior race that hunted with the wolves.”

  “What’s this noble savage stuff you’re spouting? I’ve heard you refer to Eddie as a digger—not to his face, I might add.”

  “Didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Shaw’s wolfish smile broadened. “Besides, this isn’t about cowboys and Indians, it’s about shitheads and good guys. Eddie’s one of the good guys. You could say we’re a rainbow coalition, a white guy”—he gestured toward Jerome—“an Indin, and a man with a tender conscience.” He placed a large hand on his heart. The Joshua Tree Athletic Club rattled with their laughter.

  44

  •

  Frank and Linda attended the early brunch for special members and the politically powerful who supported hunting and gun lobbies. Duane Marshall had signed Frank’s invitation with a fountain pen and a flourish. It had been Frank’s intention to skip the brunch and stick with the opening festivities in the afternoon, if you wanted to call the slaughter of cage-fed birds festive, but Linda had jumped at the opportunity to mix with the movers and shakers who pulled so many of the state’s strings, especially in the rural counties of the eastern Sierra Nevada and the desert country dominated by mining interests.

  “You will not skip it, even if I have to cut my hair, wear your uniform, and learn to spit.”

  “I don’t spit mu
ch,” he’d said.

  “Metaphorically spit.”

  “Wait a minute, I can get you a real spitter. Old Tucker can hock a loogie that can crawl on its own, make turns, and travel up hill.” He cracked a happy smile. “It’s a wonder to behold.”

  “See, you’ve made my point. Spitting and butt humor are male provinces. I have opted for spitting. I won’t have to, though, because you—we—are going to the brunch, where we will rub elbows with Darth Vader’s minions, and I will be the proverbial fly on the wall.”

  “That’ll be the day,” he said.

  So they had gone. There were about fifty people, Frank estimated. They were dressed in various hunting togs from Carhartt to Orvis. Frank sat next to a man who introduced himself as “Roger Whitfield, Whitfield Development, San Bernardino.” Whitfield revealed that he bought all his gear at the Black Bird in Medford, Oregon, “one of the only real hunting and fishing stores left in the West.” Frank had seen the store on a trip to the BLM offices in Medford, the largest gathering of BLM personnel west of the Mississippi.

  The Black Bird was fronted by a two-story cement and papiermâché bird that towered over the parking lot, fascinatingly obscene in its crudity. The creature looked like a cross between King Kong and a crow on steroids; huge armlike wings dangled from shoulders knotted with bulging muscles. Three fingerlike appendages curled upward into grasping claws. A genetic monstrosity devised to attract attention and alert the curious.

  Originally a war surplus store, the Black Bird came to sell almost anything to do with outdoor activities, especially hunting. Y2K had been a banner year for the grotesque bird. The Apocalypse Now crowd stocked up on generators, woodstoves, canned goods, and especially guns and ammo to hold off their former neighbors soon to be transformed by computer failures into roving hordes of flesh-eating monsters. Frank could never quite figure out this connection, but many folks assured him it was there. Some of the citizenry went so far as to devise fortifications, but these folks tended to belong to the end times wackos, who predicted the arrival of the Antichrist at the drop of a computer chip.