Riddles that Kill: a gripping paranormal mystery

by Lois D. Brown

  Mr. Walden huffed as he pried a rock from the ground using a crowbar. “Why are we doing this again?”

  “Trust me, both you and Rod are going to feel much better when this is done. We just need to make sure the hole is deep enough that neither of these two skeletons ever go anywhere. This site is going to be protected by the government.”

  The three of them had been at the task for several hours. They were reburying the skeleton with the gaping hole in its skull she had come across the night she and the FBI had chased Karl Fossum on the sandy roads behind the reservoir. Little had she known buried next to it were the bones of his lover and they were at risk of being torn apart by the construction of the reservoir.

  The reservoir was the shadow man’s enemy—as well as Mr. Walden and Rod because of their association with the project. They had come. Talked. Brought large machines that dug holes and made noise. Then the water had come, with its sinuous fingers that nearly pulled the shadow man from his resting place, threatening to separate him from the woman at his side with whom he had planned to spend eternity.

  The shadow man had entered the world of the undead to make Mr. Walden and Rod quit constructing the reservoir. He would go back to his resting place once he was securely reburied.

  Maria was sure of it.

  As the last shovel of dirt was placed on the newly dug double grave, Maria breathed out a sigh of relief. They had finished in time for her to still catch the plane to Jarbidge.

  “I think I might pass out,” said Rod, his t-shirt drenched. “I haven’t been this hot in weeks.”

  Both men stood up straight. Reburying the brittle skeletons had been hard work, but they had done it with reverence and respect. The result was visible. So much so Maria chided herself for not having noticed it before.

  A gray film was literally pulling itself off of the men’s countenance. They had been living under the shadow man’s influence for weeks.

  “I know it’s hot,” said Maria, who must have drank several liters of water just herself, “but other than that, how do you two feel? Different?”

  Mr. Walden tilted his neck back. “I feel like I can breathe again. I feel … free.”

  Rod stooped down and felt the red clay dirt with his fingers. He let out a sigh. “I love Kanab. I don’t know what I was thinking. I could never leave.” He smiled and looked up, catching Maria’s eye.

  A look of awareness passed over him and his jovial mood faded. “Maria … Maria, I …”

  The alarm on her phone beeped. Maria looked down and saw the time. “Guys, I’d love to stay and chat but I have to go. I’ve got my own car. Get yourselves home.” She took off running.

  “Maria,” shouted Rod.

  She didn’t stop.

  “Where are you going?’ he yelled.

  Maria couldn’t answer that. The kidnapper had told her to tell no one or Justin would be in danger. She lifted her arm up and waved goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It appears that a second Colorado man has lost his life looking for Forrest Fenn’s treasure in New Mexico near the Rio Grande … 52-year-old Paris Wallace of Grand Junction last had contact with his family June 13 and was reported missing the next day. Wallace’s wife told officers that he went to New Mexico to look for Fenn’s treasure.

  “Treasure hunt may have claimed 2nd life, state police chief calls it ‘stupid,’” by Edmundo Carrillo, Albuquerque Journal, June 19, 2017.

  Maria’s flight on the chartered plane was nothing but smooth. However, she could not say that of the SUV car ride. Jarbidge was so remote that no paved roads led into the Nevada town. Whether coming from the north or the south, you had to travel over dirt roads through a seemingly forgotten land.

  Tonight, whether by design for entertainment or because of poor steering skills, Maria’s driver managed to hit every rock, bump, rut, and gulley. It left her with a solid hour to do nothing but think—sleep was not a possibility. Besides, she’d had a good rest on the plane. Even though she was getting into Jarbidge late at night, she planned to hit the ground running. If the kidnapper truly was following her, she wanted it to be obvious that she was doing everything she could to find the treasure.

  The internet had been vague as to what exactly was in Jarbidge. It was a former mining settlement that, instead of dying out like many of the others, had become a hangout for hardcore (or wealthy) hunters looking for a good time. A couple of bed and breakfasts advertised their services online, and she saw a few raving reviews of the local bar. But with the most recent population information showing fewer than two hundred people living there, Maria couldn’t imagine what people did for work.

  Was there a library in town she might stop at for information? Even if there were, it was highly doubtful there would be a section labeled, “Veil Treasure Here.”

  Even worse, as Ms. Tuttle had explained, Jarbidge was surrounded on one side by a massive national forest and on the other side by the Jarbidge wilderness, which consisted of more than a hundred thousand acres of rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys. Maria’s visit would not be a gentle stroll around town. Of course she would be smart about it, but by this time tomorrow she was sure she would be thick in trees and brush. One woman looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. She would comb all one hundred thousand acres if she had to looking for Justin.

  It was wishful thinking, but the only way this undertaking might actually work was if her Sight kicked in and led her to where she needed to go. Of course, it had never really seemed to work that way in the past. But, if she were being honest, Maria had no idea how the Sight did work. Clearly the kidnapper thought she had skills. Maybe they knew something she didn’t?

  A jog in the road threw Maria to one side of the car, and she bumped her shoulder against the door of the SUV. She peered at the terrain lit by the headlights and a wave of guilt rushed through her.

  Maria had broken rule number one of any CIA operation, and she’d gone against good, old-fashioned common sense. She had told no one where she was going. The kidnapper had said to solve the riddle alone, so that is what she was doing. However, she had taken backup measures and mailed a letter to the FBI detective Agent Carter, which he would receive sometime tomorrow. If she never came home, her parents might be able to track down her body. A proper burial would mean a lot to her mom.

  As for how Maria felt—if she didn’t make it back to Kanab, so be it. She had been cursed with living on borrowed time the last two years of her life. She should be dead like her comrades in Tehran. How many times had she wondered why her life had been saved? Perhaps this was the reason. Perhaps the forces of the universe knew her life would be needed down the road to save an eight-year-old boy.

  The thought gave Maria peace—more than she’d felt in a long time. It was what every person who suffered from survivor guilt wanted to know.

  Why me?

  It was, in a distorted way, an attractive offer. Her life for Justin’s. It would restore balance to what had transpired in Tehran. Her CIA team could forgive her then.

  Even Ryan.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Maria heard Dr. Robert’s voice.

  Wow, that pity party came on hard and fast. What about those people who love you? Why do they have to suffer? Quit kidding yourself. Your death will not lessen the pain in the world. It will only contribute to it.

  But who loved her? Her parents?

  Yes, that was a given.

  Her siblings?

  Possibly.

  Beth?

  That was questionable.

  After this kidnapping, who knew if there would be anything but contempt from Beth for officers of the law. So far, the law had failed her.

  And what about Rod?

  Who knew.

  Part of Maria told herself she didn’t want to think about him, their relationship, and the mess it had become. But another part—the more forthright of the two—knew that she very much needed to face what was going on between them.

  After the
shadow man had been reburied and his powerful influence on the two men involved with the reservoir’s construction had dissipated, Rod’s countenance had reflected recognition, then horror, and finally regret. That “look” had opened a part of Maria’s heart she’d sworn to lock up for good the night on “K Hill” when Rod had told her it was over.

  The place inside her where hope resided.

  But Maria didn’t want to have hope. She couldn’t have hope.

  Then again, perhaps she was reading too much into the situation. While it was true that for the last while Rod had been under the influence of an angry Indian warrior, one who was mad at him for disturbing his remains and potentially separating he and his lover, maybe that wasn’t the only reason her and Rod’s relationship had been rocky. Arizona had taken a toll on it. Dakota’s presence had stirred difficult emotions within Rod.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Whether or not Rod wanted her back, she could not be with him. Or anyone else. Her existence served up heartache and pain on a silver platter to anyone she was close to. There was nothing about her presence that provided safety, peace, or love—the emotions people wanted.

  There must be a reason Maria lived a relatively solitary life. Some people exuded warm fuzzies. Rainbows and unicorns. Maria? She dished out misery and death. On the day she was born it was like a black hole appeared in the sky with her name on it. Did that have something to do with her having the Sight?

  Maria gripped the car seat as the SUV bounced her a foot into the air.

  “That was a big one,” the driver mumbled as he forged down the road.

  “How much longer?” Maria asked.

  The driver grunted. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Great. Fifteen minutes for Maria to figure out what she should do in Jarbidge.

  Hello? She called to the Sight, wherever it was. Any idea what I should do?

  There was no response, of course. While a part of Maria still wondered if the Sight even existed, she couldn’t deny some of the things she’d seen. But it had all been so sporadic. She’d never controlled the Sight. It controlled her.

  Now she had a riddle to solve and she was getting nothing on her internal radar. Perhaps she would have more luck at the local bar in Jarbidge—it was the only place that would be open this time of night anyway.

  The Red Dog Saloon was located in the middle of the four blocks that made up the town of Jarbidge. It was a wooden building painted brightly on the outside, with a rustic interior that could have passed for an old western movie set sixty years ago. The sign above the bar tender proclaimed that the “establishment” was open until 11 p.m. or until nobody was left, whichever came first.

  Maria glanced down at her phone and saw it was already 10:30 p.m. She had thirty minutes to learn as much as she could about Jarbidge and where a treasure might be hidden in it.

  “Hello ma’am,” said the man behind the bar’s wooden counter. He was seriously distracted by a late night comedy show playing on the television to his side. “What can I get for you?”

  Maria didn’t drink—especially not this time of night. But she needed to look like she was here for a purpose—and that meant … somehow … fitting in with the smattering of men who sat chugging down beers staring at the television screen.

  “What’s your house special?” asked Maria, approaching the counter.

  “For you or someone else?” The bartender had finally fully turned to look at her.

  “For me.”

  The bartender wiped his hands on his apron. “The ladies say I make a good Sidecar or Irish coffee—they’re my more sophisticated drinks.”

  “And what do the men like?” Maria asked.

  “My Whiskey Sour. And the house beer, of course.”

  She put her hands on the counter and thought a moment. “How about a rum and Coke, please. I’m going light tonight.”

  “Sure thing ma’am. You paying cash or want to start a tab?”

  “Cash.” Maria pulled a ten dollar bill from her pocket and gave it to the bartender after he poured her a tall glass of rum, added Coke at the top, and stuck a lime wedge to the rim.

  “Thanks,” said Maria.

  “You bet. Did you just get into town?”

  “Yes, not too long ago. Nothing looked open but the bar.”

  “Jarbidge is a quiet place. Whatcha here for?”

  “Hunting.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I know some hunting guides if you’re needing any, that’s all. Let me know if you change your mind. I could recommend some good ones.”

  Maria thanked him and looked around. Nostalgic and quaint, the saloon walls were lined with black and white photos and yellowed newspaper clippings. A few colored magazine articles were also framed and hung for tourists to read. Looking around, Maria realized she was in a goldmine. This bar had more history than a library—if the town even had one. Maria wanted to read every word of each newspaper and magazine article here.

  But what really caught Maria’s eye, however, was a massive map hung on one wall. It was spread out and tacked flat, covered with handwritten notes. Maria took her drink and found a table right next to the six-foot-tall map. Locals had crossed out the official names of mountains and rivers and scribbled in their own. For example, Emerald Lake was crossed out and in its place was scrawled “Bull Trout Paradise.”

  People—most likely hunters and fishermen—had also drawn their own landmarks on the map. On the edge in pencil was a strange cluster of three blobs. The handwritten name, “The Three Wiseman Hoodoos” was next to it. Maria had no idea what a hoodoo was, but it only took a minute to look it up on her phone.

  Reading briefly about the unique geological rock formation called a hoodoo, Maria had an idea. What if one of the terms Ms. Tuttle and her card-playing professionals were coming up with as they played hundreds of hands of Bridge was on this map? For example, what if there was a Bridge term about hoodoos?

  The local nicknames numbered into the hundreds, but Maria knew she needed to record all of them. This might be the break she was hoping for. Maybe the Sight had led her here after all.

  Maria took of sip of her drink and opened her “notes” app on her phone. Not caring if she was being obvious, she started at the top left-hand corner of the map. She thumb-typed the handwritten names of places in the Jarbidge wilderness into her phone. After fifteen minutes, she’d only recorded the information contained in a two-foot area of the map. The process was taking forever. Maria quickly took another sip of her drink and changed her phone to camera mode. Starting in the upper left-hand corner of the map, she took pictures of a square foot of the map at a time, moving her way left to right, creating a grid system.

  The handful of men in the bar had, one-by-one stopped watching the television and began watching her. She didn’t care. If she was in Jarbidge to show the kidnapper she was on the hunt of a treasure, then the more people who noticed her the better.

  Next, Maria moved on to taking pictures of the newspaper and magazine articles hung on the wall. As she did, she briefly skimmed over the content.

  One article talked about the last famous stage robbery in Jarbidge. The driver of a two-horse mail wagon was ambushed and shot. He later died. Four thousand dollars was stolen and never recovered—buried somewhere in Jarbidge Canyon. Maria thought of Ms. Tuttle’s idea—something about the ace, or bullet card, pointing to the Veil treasure being at the spot of the robbery. But the article didn’t give a location of where the incident took place and Maria remembered that was only one of many possibilities.

  Another article Maria took a picture of was an in-depth retelling of the Shoshone’s capture of the Jarbidge monster. It ended by recounting how the Shoshone were crowded out of the area by miners and gold panners.

  A few more articles showcased the largest Bull Trout ever caught at the lakes and the biggest elk ever shot on the mountain. Nothing really seemed inspiring to Maria, and she worried her instinct had lead her a
stray. Nonetheless, she took pictures of everything.

  As she snapped her last photo, the bartender moved to the center of the room, shooing customers to the lobby and out the door.

  “Come on, time to go home.” He herded the group toward the exit. Maria followed the men to the lobby where a few of them slipped jackets on. Nights in Jarbidge anytime of year could get chilly.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Maria turned around, expecting to see the bartender. Instead a younger man in his twenties stood at her side. His arms were the size of most men’s thighs and just about as hairy. His thick neck stretched the ribbing of his t-shirt—an accomplishment which would make many college football players jealous.

  “I heard you tell the bartender you were here to hunt. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Maria looked at the man who could easily bench press three of her. “Can I help you?”

  “Actually, I wondered if I could help you. I’m a professional hunting guide but my client backed out at the last minute. I’m here for a few days with no jobs lined up.”

  Maria’s mind couldn’t stop churning out questions. Was he a plant? Could this be the kidnapper? How had he found her here? Where was he from? Not Kanab, that much she knew.

  “Why do you think I need a guide?” asked Maria.

  “Name is Clyde Jensen, and I’ve been hunting since I was a kid. No offense, ma’am, but I’d hate to see someone like you run into trouble out here. I’ve been hunting from Alaska to Africa. If you think I might save you time and grief, my services are available.”

  “And just what do your services include?” Maria asked, fishing for as much information as possible.

  “You tell me the kind of game you have a tag for, and I make sure you bag one. At least I’ll do everything possible. What kind of animal did you come here to get?”

  Maria decided there was one sure way to smell out a skunk—direct exposure. “I’m actually hunting for a place, not an animal.”