Bad Land

by Jonathan Yanez

  Bad Land

  BY

  Jonathan Yanez

  Bad Land

  Copyright © 2013 by Jonathan Yanez. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: September 2013

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1492352655

  ISBN-10: 1492352659

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my Dad who showed me through example what it means to be a man and whose work ethic I try and duplicate on a daily basis.

  Introduction

  Every group of people, every race and creed of men, have their own traditions and stories to tell. But where did these stories come from? Most have roots founded in reality that over the years have turned toward the fantastical. The myths and legends we all know today were once actual occurrences that have become twisted over the course of time. Men have passed down stories for thousands of years, sometimes adding parts, sometimes taking away entire sections, but the truth is still there.

  Since the beginning of time, things that we cannot explain have existed. Theories are always available, but the truth is we have no facts. How the pyramids or Stonehenge were built, the power found in the now “missing” Ark of the Covenant, and even how so many planes and ships were and are lost to the Bermuda Triangle every year.

  Not all of these mysteries are so far from our own homes. The Native Americans have their own stories, their own hidden objects of power that they have guarded since the conception of North America. This is the story of one of these objects of power.

  As history has shown over and over again, it is not a matter of if, it is only a matter of when power will corrupt its wielder. The hearts of men have always been directed toward greed and personal gain. Leaders will rise and fall, time will come and go, but one thing will remain the same. The need for man to attain more by whatever means he can.

  “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked:

  who can know it?”

  Jeremiah 17:9

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  “She’s dead? What are you talking about? I just saw her.”

  “Turn your TV on, channel—eleven.”

  Marshall walked through his bare kitchen and into his even barer family room. Being married to his work and practically living at his office made his actual home no more than a shell. But this morning his mind was far from his living situation.

  He grabbed the cold plastic remote control and hit the power button. Marshall didn’t even wait to see if the TV had turned on before he hit the number one button twice. Cell phone in his left hand, remote in his right, he stood in front of his TV as the newscasters’ voices filled the empty air.

  “Eighteen-year-old Barbara Summers was found dead today on the back roads of Wakan Canyon. Witnesses found the body laying in the middle of the road, and when authorities arrived, she was pronounced dead at the scene. The cause of her death is unknown at this time.” The male news anchor spoke as though he was talking about the scores of a basketball or football game. There was no inflection in his voice. No grimace or frown as a picture of Wakan Canyon flashed across the screen. It was a picture of the one lane road, a figure lying in the middle with a white sheet covering it.

  “In other news…” The female co-anchor took the reins and started talking about a local dog show that was scheduled to visit the area.

  “Are you still there? Marshall?”

  “Sorry, yeah. I’m here.” Marshall’s brow furrowed and his green eyes narrowed as he shook his head. He knew the news anchors weren’t going to cry over a stranger, especially when it was their job to report murders and deaths on a daily basis, but he did expect something. Some shake of the head or a frown at the very least.

  “You okay? Want to come in late today?”

  Marshall was ripped from his thoughts and brought back to reality by his boss, a boss that was always pushing deadlines and overtime on him. In the last few years, the nicest thing she had said to Marshall was a compliment about his coffee-making skills. She was fair, but she expected a lot from all of her employees, especially Marshall. On a daily basis, she pushed him to be the best journalist he could be.

  “No, I’m fine. I only met her once for the interview. I’ll be in soon.”

  “Okay.”

  The phone died on the other end and Marshall let the cell phone fall from his ear. There was something he couldn’t quite put a name to. He had only met Barbara once as he interviewed her for the intern position. Yet somehow he felt like he had just lost a close friend. Something deep inside him stirred. Some emotion he had fought to bury for a very long time was struggling to make its way to the surface.

  Being a reporter had taken Marshall across numerous murder and death scenes and he had handled all of them in stride, but for some reason this one was different.

  His body ran through the normal routines of dressing and eating, but today he didn’t care which shirt he wore or how his cereal tasted. He knew himself too well to think he would just shrug away this feeling. He had to find out why he cared so much about Barbara. He knew it wasn’t a physical attraction. He was twenty-three and she was barely eighteen, a recent high school graduate, interviewing for a summer job.

  He rose from the plain brown table he had eaten his cereal at and walked to the sink to rinse out his bowl. He spotted his roommate out of the corner of his eye. “Well, look who finally decided to get up. It must be that hard life you live, working day in and day out. Meeting all those deadlines. Really gets to you, huh?”

  His beagle, George, stretched out and yawned over dramatically as he sauntered over and panted near Marshall’s feet. George’s big brown eyes looked into Marshall’s green, and if dogs could smile, he smiled.

  Marshall was given a moment of rest from his thoughts about the morning’s events as he leaned down and ruffled George’s soft brown ears.

  Marshall checked to make sure George had plenty of food and water for the day. “All right, dude, you hold down the fort. I’ll be back tonight.”

  George stretched again and smiled.

  Marshall grabbed the dark brown leather case he always kept with him and swung the thick leather strap over his head and across his shoulder. He stepped outside to another warm Southern California day. The sun was still climbing in the sky as he nodded to the neighbors he
always acknowledged but never talked to and hopped in his car.

  Every so often he felt guilty about living so close to people and not making the effort to get to know them, but it just seemed too awkward and forced when he did have any kind of conversation with them.

  The car Marshall chose to drive was more like a tank, really. His rusted 1966 Mustang coupe had seen better days, better decades, but it still ran and had never let him down.

  The engine rumbled to life and he pulled out of his driveway. The radio squawked something about a new weight loss procedure. It was guaranteed to work while still allowing you to eat whatever you wanted. A hyper female voice began talking about shakes and cheeseburgers before Marshall switched it off and his mind once again turned to Barbara Summers.

  He made his way through the heavy morning traffic, thankful his office was only a few minutes away. What was it about her? It had to be her youth and eagerness to experience life. Yes. That had to be it. That was why he felt her death on a deeper level.

  Satisfied that he had solved his own mystery, Marshall was content to turn the radio back on and think about the story on which he was currently working. It was a large piece about the history of the county and was set to run on the front page of the city paper on the county’s fast approaching anniversary.

  Marshall turned a corner and the sun hit him right in the face. Squinting, he reached for his black Ray-Bans and blinked as he placed them over his eyes. More than once Marshall had been written off as a surfer or skateboarder rather than one of California’s most decorated up and coming reporters.

  Marshall had taken the same internship Barbara had been interviewing for at the age of seventeen. He worked four years at the city paper as he completed college and graduated at twenty-one. In the last two years, Marshall had really come into his own. Known at the paper as a relentless reporter who didn’t know how to take no for an answer, Marshall would do whatever it took to finish a story and uncover the truth, even if it meant putting his own safety in jeopardy, which it did on more than one occasion.

  The paper’s tall building soon came into view, boasting a huge, somewhat corny, winged sandaled foot. It rested on the roof and was fashioned from bronze with a long bronze banner draped across it that read “The Hermes.”

  Marshall shook his head for the hundredth time as he parked his car and grabbed his leather bag. He was a loyal reporter and would probably work at this newspaper for years to come, but he always laughed when he thought about the name. It was only because of her, his boss, that the paper had stood a chance in its infancy. Since then she had bitten and clawed her way along the hard road of success and made the Hermes what it was today. The most respected newspaper in the district… despite the name.

  Marshall walked into the lobby, greeted the ageing security guard, and entered the elevator that would take him to the building’s fifth and highest floor. He was alone in the elevator and grateful he had missed the usual mob that squished into each ascending and descending metal box during the morning rush. He glanced at his watch. He was going to be early to work, again.

  The elevator doors dinged open and he stepped off onto his floor. Walking past the open room and cubicles, he made his way to his own office. Marshall passed by what was previously his cubicle before he had been promoted. A small smile played across his lips as he remembered the long hours of research and monotonous work he had been tasked with by senior reporters. Now he was the one passing down work to those poor journalistic souls still serving time in reporter purgatory.

  His office, much like his apartment, was bare except for a large desk and chair in the middle and a bookcase that was jammed full of reading material. It wasn’t a corner office and didn’t even have a window, but it was his, and that was enough. Marshall dropped his bag on his desk and hit the power button for his computer.

  “Well, look who I finally beat into the office today,” a female voice called from the door.

  Marshall didn’t even have to look up, he already knew who it was. Ann Hansen was a tech support member who never seemed to have a bad day… ever. “Hello, Ann.”

  “You’re looking fit. Been working—”

  “Working out?” Marshall looked up with a forced smile as he finished her sentence. “No. No, I haven’t. You ask me that every day and every day I tell you the same thing. I have a high metabolism and I hate exercising. I love eating fast food and do so on a daily basis.”

  This didn’t seem to faze Ann as she shifted her coffee mug from one hand to the other and blew at the steam, sending spirals of hot air in Marshall’s direction. “Did you see the news this morning? That poor girl… and to think she was just here interviewing a few days ago.” Ann looked up through her horn-rimmed glasses and her blue eyes widened. “Hey, didn’t you interview her for the intern position?”

  Marshall had been trying to look busy, hoping beyond hope Ann would get the hint and go away, but it didn’t work. It never worked. Ann was a nice person, but she lacked tact when it came to social cues and hints. She was beyond clueless when it came to knowing when someone would rather be left alone. “Yeah. Yeah, that was me.”

  Ann still stood in the doorway, continuing to blow through her brightly colored lips at the rising steam. “I’m sorry.”

  Marshall’s computer had started now and he was in the process of opening his email when Ann’s comment made him look up again. “Why? I didn’t know her.”

  “I passed by your office while you were interviewing her. You two seemed to be having a great time. I heard you laughing. It reminded me of when I used to get together with my younger brother.” This time there was the slightest sense of sadness in Ann’s voice.

  Marshall was at a loss for words as that same feeling came back to him. The feeling that told him he owed something to Barbara Summers.

  “Well, anyway, I’m here if you need to talk to someone.”

  Marshall looked at Ann and was reminded why he was one of the few in the office that chose to put up with her. He knew deep down Ann was a great person. “Thanks, Ann.”

  Ann smiled and left. Marshall sat at his desk, looking at the empty space Ann had left in his doorway and reminded himself to be nice to her in the future, no matter how hard it seemed.

  He was scrolling down the dozen or so emails that waited for him every morning when the phone on his desk rang. It was coming from extension 666… the numbers he had assigned to his boss’ phone. Marshall pressed the phone to his ear. “Yes, Ma’am?”

  Chapter 2

  “I need to see you in my office.” It was the same tone she normally used with her employees. The care he thought he had heard in her voice this morning was gone. In fact, it was so far removed he wondered if it had been there at all. His boss actually being sensitive to an employee? Never.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll be right there.”

  Marshall hung up the phone and looked down at his Vans, blue jeans, and button up plaid shirt. He should have worn something different. She was always reminding him how a professional reporter should dress and act.

  Marshall exited his office and walked past the army of cubicles to his right on his way to the large corner office.

  No one voluntarily made his or her way to the boss’ office. They avoided the area like it was infected with a zombie virus.

  Marshall gently raised a knuckled fist and wrapped on the large wooden door. It boasted a single plaque: Diane Whitmer Editor in Chief.

  “Come in, Mr. Montgomery.”

  Marshall tensed at the use of his last name as he twisted the cold metal knob then walked through the door. Her office was the polar opposite of his own. His feet sank into a thick carpet. The sun shone brightly behind her through a large window with designer drapes. A bulky mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, adorned with the emblem of the paper they worked for. Her walls were lined with bookshelves, framed awards, featured articles, and honorable mentions.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Diane looked him up an
d down and shook her head in disapproval. “Yes. When are you going to start dressing like a real reporter, Marshall? People aren’t going to take you seriously if you don’t take yourself seriously.”

  Marshall smiled. Diane Whitmer was a force to be reckoned with. There was no doubt her very name inspired fear in the hearts of every reporter and journalist that worked for her and even some that didn’t. Her reputation as a cutthroat journalist was only surpassed by her successful career as the editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

  Marshall, however, had known Diane for six years, and in that time had learned how to deal with her. She was like a shark. She was intimidating and fierce. Everyone cowered in front of her and stumbled over their words when they addressed her. She could smell blood in the water from a mile away. She could sense fear in almost anyone, and from day one, Marshall had refused to be afraid of her. Marshall was full of respect for the woman, but when others cowered, he stood tall with a smile.

  He walked over to a particularly large plaque, the one that held his article from the previous year, the story that had earned him his position as a full time journalist. “Apparently someone took me serious enough to give me the Hermes award for Story of the Year. That’s weird, right?”

  Diane shot him a steely stare that revealed nothing, and just for a second, Marshall thought he saw the corners of her lips twitch. But it was gone as fast as it had happened and she raised an eyebrow instead. “Yes, well, that was LAST year, Mr. Montgomery.”

  Marshall tucked a tuff of his dark brown hair behind his ear. Just like she was on him to start wearing slacks and button up shirts to work, she was always on him to cut his hair. He had managed to hold her shears at bay thus far.

  “I have the piece about the history of the county coming up for the area’s anniversary. It’s going to make waves.”