“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I know where Parker is, but I can’t bring in Dave and the others. It’ll just mean putting them in certain danger if I do. I have a chance to bring it to an end, so I’m going after him.”
“Don’t! You can’t make everything come out right. Wait for the others.” Her voice was urgent.
“Dave is on his way to Sand Canyon. When he gets there, tell him what’s up, okay?” He waited. “Okay?’
“I’ll do that for you, Frank, and you come back here, where you’re needed.”
“There’s another thing you should know. I just quit the BLM, so they won’t be mixed up with a rogue ranger.” He chuckled softly. “That could be a TV series, The Rogue Ranger.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“On my way to get Parker.”
“Damn you, Frank Flynn. If you wind up dead, we don’t have much of a future.” Her voice was cracking.
“Not to worry. I have a chance to stop him before he gets anyone else, and this way it’s no one’s fault if he gets away again—or if he doesn’t. Linda, I love you very much.” He hung up before she could say anything to change his mind.
He took the Mount Whitney Fish Hatchery Road and followed it as far as the turnoff for the dirt parking lot below the hatchery. There was one car pulled up under the trees. Two young Latina women sat on one of the benches next to the lower pond keeping an eye on two six- or seven-year-old boys fooling around near the edge of the water. A school of fat dark trout trailed them near the water’s edge. The fish were waiting for pellet feed from the coin dispensers spaced around the breeding pond.
The older of the two boys ran back to his mother and begged for a coin, but she shook her head. “No more. The fish will grow so big they will eat you.” Her companion laughed.
“Nuh-uh,” the boy said, glancing nervously back at the dark roiling bodies.
Frank approached the women. “Hi, there. I’m afraid we’re temporarily closing the fish hatchery. Police business.”
The women glanced at each other, unsure of what was happening.
“Nothing to worry about, but you need to round up your children and leave.”
They frowned at Frank, not completely believing him.
“You need to move along. If you leave now, there’s no danger.” He looked around. “Just the two children?”
“Yes, just my boys.” Frank could see she was the older of the two. He realized they were sisters.
“That’s good.”
The women called the children and climbed into an old Chevy truck, the boys crowding between them. Frank followed them out in his vehicle and locked the gate across the entrance. The hatchery no longer functioned as a breeding facility. The grounds and ponds were maintained for the tourists. He didn’t want anyone to wander in and get caught up in the crossfire. He watched as the truck turned back onto Highway 395 and headed south.
Gilman’s phone launched tinny Valkyries into the soft afternoon air.
“Okay, Sergeant. I make it out to be two ten. What do you say to two thirty?”
“Fine by me.” Frank glanced up at the tower. “Duel in the sun, huh? Why don’t we just hang it up, Parker? There’s been too much killing already. Let’s make it stop.”
“Can’t do it, Sergeant. It’s gone too far. It’s coming to an end, like you said, one way or another. Can’t bear it anymore.”
“What? What can’t you bear anymore?”
He was gone.
Frank drove up the road past the hatchery and parked his vehicle under some cottonwoods lining the stream. He would approach the hatchery from Oak Creek, staying in the cover of the willows. Parker would figure him for that, so he’d have to be careful about moving the shrubbery around. He hoped the wind would pick up and make it harder for his movements to give him away. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, picked up the AR-15 and a spare clip of ammo, and put on his shooting glasses to reduce the glare.
The south entry to the Mount Whitney Fish Hatchery was beneath a stone tower rising up three stories overlooking the grounds. The hatchery had been built from native rock with local money and local labor. In places the walls were three feet thick.
Frank knew the tower was a trap. Parker knew it, too. There was no path of retreat. On the other hand, it was close to impregnable. He made his way down the creek, the clear water softly gurgling among the rocks, forming small pools where brook trout waited for careless insects to dimple the surface of the water. He kept to the north side of the creek, placing his moving shape among the shadows, stopping in the stillness, moving with the wind as it pushed up the canyon from the valley floor.
When he was approximately even with the long cement fish runs, he stopped to look over the grounds. The tower rose above the far end of the building, not more than three hundred yards to the south. To be seen was to be dead. A bright glint of reflection caught Frank’s eye. He studied the opening, fronting the north side of the tower. The glint flashed again. He smiled to himself, fumbling with Gilman’s phone. He brought up the incoming calls, selected the number of the last call, and pushed the dial-up button.
“Why are you calling, Sergeant?”
“Clumsy stuff, Parker. The flasher.”
“Okay.” There was a pause, followed by heavy breathing. “You might have been overeager, Sergeant.” This was followed by a soft groan.
“You wounded, Seth?”
“Not like you think. I’m doing fine.” A round whispered by Frank’s right ear, followed by the crack of the rifle. Frank dropped to the ground, behind a large boulder. Two more rounds chipped into the top of the rock, sending shards of granite flying into the stream and peppering his skin and flying up into his shooting glasses. The sound of Parker’s tinny laughter rose into the air from the still open phone. “The flasher located you, Sarge, not me. When you see it, I can see you.”
Frank closed the phone and stuffed it in his pocket. How had Parker missed? Frank knew he should have been dead, but here he was. Maybe Parker was playing with him. Letting him know who was best.
He worked his way downstream far enough so that the rise of the land blocked the line of sight from the tower. He trotted below a small earthen dam diverting water into one of the ponds, then worked his way toward the hatchery from the northeast. A group of teenagers on bicycles were riding along the short dirt road leading to the parking lot. Damn. Parker wouldn’t shoot the boys, but he would find a way to exploit their presence. He had to warn them off. He dropped back and began working his way toward the parking lot. A white F150 pickup truck rolled up the road and came to a stop by the gate. Two men slid out the passenger’s side door, away from the hatchery, Dave Meecham and Jesse Sierra. Dave and Linda must have put their heads together and figured it out. Parker would kill them as easily as blowing out a candle.
Frank rose and started walking toward the hatchery. The whoosh of a round near his head made him flinch. The sound of the shot rooted Meecham and Sierra behind the truck. It was the only warning Frank could provide. He reached the pond and took the path along the southern edge. Two more rounds struck the surface of the fishpond, raising geysers of water into the air that faded into fleeting rainbows. The trout darted away into the shadows and recesses near the shore.
As Frank reached the open lawn leading up to the entrance at the base of the tower, “The Ride of the Valkyries” jingled into the air. It lifted his heart. If Parker was using the phone, Meecham and Sierra were safe, and for the moment, so was he.
“Hi, Seth. Nice afternoon, verdad?”
“What the hell are you doing, Sergeant?” Parker sounded very tired.
“Coming up to have a chat.”
“I said come alone. You shouldn’t have brought in the others.”
“I didn’t, Seth. Keep it between you and me.” There was no response. “Parker! Parker!”
He caught movement from the corner of his eye. Meecham and Sierra had left the cover of the truck and were trying to w
ork their way through the trees.
He put the phone to his mouth. “I’m coming up, Seth. I know you can hear me. I’m on my way.” He hurried across the lawn.
The crack of the .270 reverberated into the afternoon stillness, amplified by the confines of the stone walls. Frank turned as Dave Meecham crumpled to the ground. God damn! God damn! He put the assault rifle to his shoulder and ran ten rounds into the tower window, shifting the entry point from left to right, hoping the jacketed rounds would bounce around against the rocks and cement. He put in a second clip and did it again. He could hear the rounds pinging as they ricocheted inside the stone room. Then he tossed the rifle to the ground and ran for the entrance, clutching the shotgun.
He pushed through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and leapt up the stairs leading to the top floor of the tower. He shouldn’t have left his hat behind. Stupid thought. Then, holding the shotgun to his shoulder, he kicked the door open. Parker sat on the floor, blood leaking out from under him and spreading across his midsection.
“It was a hornet’s nest in here, Sarge. It wasn’t a good place to fort up.” Parker’s rifle lay on the cement. He nodded toward it. “It was my dad’s.” He looked down at the polished wood and steel. “Pre-1964.” He fixed his gaze on Frank. “I’ve got brain cancer, Sarge. It hurts like hell.” He frowned down at the growing splotch of blood on his shirt. He smiled. “I knew you’d come for me. I wish you hadn’t killed John. That made me angry as hell.”
“What about the people you killed, Parker? What about the man you just shot down?”
“Who was he?’
“A damned good man.” Frank raised the shotgun and took up the slack.
Parker smiled. “I told you we were alike.” He dabbed his hand on his bloody shirt as if not quite believing he’d been shot. “They always looked so surprised. Now I think I get it.”
“Why am I alive, Seth? You could’ve taken me out a couple of times.”
Parker smiled. “Yeah, I know, but I owed you, and you’re a good man, Sarge.” His voice was weak.
“You killed a better man, Parker. His name was Dave Meecham. Say it, you son of a bitch. Say his name.”
“Dave Meecham,” he said.
“Damn you to hell.” He shot Parker in the chest. He stood for a minute, listening to the wind blowing up from the valley. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs, and in that moment, he saw the thing that chased him in his dream as clearly as if he were staring in the water.
“Frank! Frank! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Jesse.”
Jesse Sierra came through the door, holding a shotgun at the ready, and took in Parker’s bloody body; then he turned his face to Frank. “Dave’s been shot.” Sierra’s voice broke. “He’s dead, Frank.”
“Have you called it in?”
“Yes, but all the emergency services are out at Sand Canyon.”
“I’ll come down with you.” The two rangers followed the path skirting the pond. A cloud of fine dust enveloped the valley in a murky gray.
54
•
It had been three days since the events at Sand Canyon, and Shaw had barely survived. His left leg had been shattered, almost severed above the knee by the large-caliber round. The surgeon removed the rest. Bill Jerome had pulled him out the passenger door and controlled the bleeding with an improvised tourniquet comprised of his shirt sleeve and an oval-shaped pebble clamped against the artery. Shaw complained bitterly about Jerome’s ministrations, claiming the tourniquet hurt worse than being shot. Bill Jerome had strong hands.
Linda stood between her father and Jerome on the far side of Shaw’s hospital bed. Eddie Laguna and Cece Flowers stood on the other side, Eddie grinning, Cece’s small face grave with concern. Frank stood behind them, his smooth features expressionless.
“These two are going to harm one another if you don’t get well soon,” Linda said, gesturing toward her father and Bill Jerome.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Shaw said. “I’m going to get fixed up with a wooden leg, like old Pegleg Smith. Take it off and smack the smart-mouths when things get out of hand.” The thought crossed Frank’s mind that if Shaw had a pegleg and a parrot, he’d be a perfect Long John Silver.
“Yeah, a wooden leg’d go along with your hobnailed tongue,” Eddie added.
Shaw’s eyes were watery with weariness. “Take care, Redhawk. I’ll be up on my feet—foot—before you know it.”
Cece picked up Shaw’s large weathered hand. “I can’t believe I’ve been worried about you, Mr. Shaw, but I have.” She smiled and squeezed his hand.
“Careful with that hand squeezing. You might bring on a case of RLS.”
“RLS?”
“Restless leg syndrome.” He rolled his eyes and gave Cece a lascivious look.
“What’s he talking about?” Eddie queried, looking suspicious.
Collins laughed. “It’s like in that song, ‘Reincarnation,’ when the cowboy looks down at the pile of horse shit in the road and thinks how it made the passage from grave to plant to horse and out the other end. The cowboy looks at it and thinks”—Collins leaned down close to Shaw, smiling hugely—“Ben, you ain’t changed all that much.”
“We have to be going, Bill. Cece is going to help me run the club while you’re laid up,” Linda said.
“That’s great,” Shaw laughed. “The boys will be lined up at the bar two deep.”
Linda, Cece, and Eddie waved their good-byes at the doorway.
Frank moved closer to the side of Shaw’s bed. “The wooden leg is a good idea, Ben. I can see you whipping it off and chasing the punks from the club.”
“Hell, I don’t need the leg. I’ve got crazy eyes, and without my teeth, I look like Wolfman.” He grinned, exposing gums between large, pointed canines. “They took my teeth, afraid I’d choke.” Shaw waited for Frank to continue.
“Just wanted to tell you I won’t be around for a while.”
“Where’re you going?” He raised a tired arm. “Never mind, it’s none of my business, Frank.”
Frank smiled. “I’ll be spending some time with old Tucker up in the Saline. I’m giving him a hand. He lost a big toe moving around some equipment.”
Shaw gave Frank a knowing look. “Mining equipment, I’ll bet.”
“Yup, that’s right.” He studied Shaw’s whiskered face. “Tucker and Rocky Surrette were moving his single stamp mill, and the shoe came off and fell on his foot. Took his big toe right off. He could’ve bled to death if Surrette hadn’t been there. He drove him into the clinic at Lone Pine a couple days ago, but he’s back at his place because of the animals. Surrette has a place of his own to keep an eye on, so I thought I’d give Tucker a hand until he gets back on his feet.” Frank glanced at the depression in the bedding where Shaw’s left leg would have been. “Sorry, Ben, I could’ve put it differently.”
“It’s all right. I already made that joke. I’ll have to get used to it.” Shaw exposed his canines through the graying beard.
Very Wolfman-like, Frank thought. “How long have you known that Tucker was sitting on the mine?”
“It started to add up after we found out the letter was a phony. We figured the town was probably Darwin, not Red Mountain. And old Tucker waving the shotgun around, scaring people away from his place. Well, that made sense, too.”
“I’m glad you’re sticking around, Ben. The Joshua Tree Athletic Club won’t be the same till you’re back.”
“No, it won’t, and with Cece tending bar, my return won’t be greeted with enthusiasm.” Shaw looked thoughtful. “How long you going to be up in the Saline Valley?”
“I’m not sure, Ben. I’m suspended with pay until they’re through with the investigation.” He paused. “I don’t know about all that yet.”
Shaw’s face lapsed into seriousness. “Well, the club won’t be the same without you, either. Don’t forget, the Joshua Tree Athletic Club will always be your home away from home, amigo.”
“Count on it, Frank.” Collins put a meaty hand on Frank’s shoulder.
“Yeah, we can shoot a game or two, so I can win now and then. You’re the only fish I can count on.”
“Thanks, Bill. Maybe I can swamp out the place for you boys and earn my keep.”
The partners looked cheerfully downcast.
Frank put on a smile. “Now that you have Cece helping out, Linda won’t be so tied up. Seems like she’s been pretty busy between the paper and the bar.” It felt lame as soon as he’d said it.
“So she told you,” Collins said, raising tired eyes.
“Yeah. She didn’t say it’s definite, though?” Frank made it a question.
Collins nodded. “No, there’s that, but she’s got the bit in her teeth.” The silence settled between them. “What are you going to do about it?” he said.
“I don’t know, Jack. I’m not sure there’s much I can do.”
Collins shook his head. “For an Irish lad, sometimes you’re dumb as a post.”
“That’s old news, Jack.”
55
•
The time on Zeke Tucker’s place had been oddly peaceful. After the second day, Tucker started talking, Then he couldn’t seem to stop. At first Frank felt obligated to respond, but the hermit was talking to himself as much as to Frank. Sometimes it was as if Frank weren’t even there. When the basso profundo muttering became too much, Frank would slip out into the glittering desert twilight and let the soft sounds of nocturnal stirrings take him into timeless realms. Tucker never seemed to notice; his deep murmurings rumbled on without regard.
For a while Frank thought that it was loneliness that drove the endless voice, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Most of what Tucker said was a running commentary on the doings of his life and a list of things to attend to.
“Float valve’s stuck again. Water all over the place.”
“Damn foot’s sore as hell.”
“Be a while before we can hike up to Beverage, huh, Jack? Well, it ain’t entirely your fault.”
Shadows of Death Page 26
