Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  It was the elbow in his gut and not my command that broke Richard’s deathlike grip. Richard wheezed as the air was driven from him. Clovin was at his throat, driving him out the window. I fired another round into the wall, but this time it had no effect.

  I wanted to fire at Clovin, but didn’t want to hit Richard. “Shit!” I stuffed the .45 into my jeans, rushed up to Clovin and rabbit-punched him in the kidney. I saw the spasm rack his body, but he never broke his grip on Richard’s throat.

  They were halfway out the window. In a moment, the law of gravity would step in and supersede those of the state of New York. I grabbed Clovin by the throat and tried to pull him off, but he was intent—possessed with a madman’s strength. I saw the panicked look on Richard’s face as he began to topple out, eight stories from oblivion and going fast.

  My eyes dilated with astonishment. Twain was at my side. “Grab Richard,” I screamed. Twain’s gloved hand shot out like a harpoon, grabbing Richard by the wrist. I snatched my automatic and shot Clovin in the leg.

  Clovin’s head rotated back in my direction, but he held fast. He was intent on sending his adversary to his death. I put a second bullet in his other leg, and he went down.

  Clovin turned to me. “Moloch,” he screamed. I was familiar with that word. He was calling me the devil. The wild-eyed monster shuddered, winced and stumbled, but somehow got back up on his feet.

  He put one lifeless leg in front of the other. “Jesus Christ!” I bellowed. Someone needed to tell this asshole it was time to lie down. I had him framed in my sights, squeezing down on the trigger.

  “Stephanie, don’t!” Twain screamed.

  My head spun in Twain’s direction for a split second. In an instant, Clovin was back in my sights. “What?” Twain was losing the battle with gravity.

  “He’s your father!” Twain screamed. His head and torso were almost out the window.

  “My what? No he’s not!” I snapped. I began to tremble. My father? I turned just as Clovin sprang toward me. I stepped aside. Resentment fired the first round. Hatred squeezed off the next three, a perfect grouping that pierced each compartment of his frozen, psychopathic heart. How could this thing have been my father? Never!

  Clovin’s eyes rolled upward as the bullets punched him into the wall. He collapsed face first on the floor in front of me. I was tempted to spit on him, but the sight of Twain and Richard going out the window preempted any further display of contempt.

  Twain was fighting to keep Richard from going over, but Richard was Twain’s match in size and weight, and the pendulum, it seemed, had tipped in their disfavor.

  I sprang forward a second too late. Richard’s scream filled the air and then trailed off into the night. I trained my ears, but never heard the thud. Twain was out the window, hanging onto the sill with one hand. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to pull him back in, but I hoped I could help him enough so that he could shift his weight and do the job himself. “Give me your hand,” I yelled.

  I leaned out and saw Twain’s panicked eyes searching for mine. He was so large and powerful, but he was paralyzed by the situation. “You can do it, Nigel. Just give me your other hand.” He reached for me. I saw his eyes follow until his hand was just an inch from mine. His glove had come off while trying to save Richard. His eyes jumped to my hand and then he froze. “What the—” Why’d he stop? And then I understood. The fear in his eyes had grown a hundredfold. My hand was covered with blood. “Come on, Nigel. Take my goddamn hand.”

  In his phobic mind, it was as if he were reaching for the head of a venomous snake. I counted to three and then made the decision for him. I lurched out the window and seized his free hand. I grunted as his weight registered with me. He was hanging like meat on a slaughterhouse hook, a look of abject hopelessness on his face. “Come on, Nigel. Come on, Nigel . . . I can’t hold you forever.”

  And then he came to life. His arm tensed as if a pneumatic winch had kicked in. In a second, both of his hands were on the window ledge and he was pulling himself up.

  I scanned the pavement for Richard’s lifeless body, but couldn’t find it. I had my bloody hands on Twain’s coat as I yanked him back into my apartment.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I needed a vacation after that night. I’m not talking a weekend in Atlantic City; I’m talking the whole damn summer, so that I could chill, decompress, veg out, and what have you.

  Chief of Detectives, Sonellio, good as gold, granted my request for a two-month leave of absence. The summer was mine, to put my life back into order. God only knew, I needed it. Twain’s story had come as a terrible blow and it was a long time before I was able to accept it. He had provided all the paperwork necessary to support his claim. I pored through it over and over again. In the end, I was unable to refute his findings.

  In exchange for the father he had taken from me, God had given me a brother. Richard survived. A tree limb had broken his fall. He was still hobbling around and his arm was in a sling throughout the summer. Lord knew he’d never regain that which had been taken from him: a legitimate life, his mother, and kid sister, Sheryl. He was an interesting man, forty-five years old, an oxygen-starved ember striving to become a brilliant flame. I didn’t know if he’d ever be able to overcome all that he had been through, but with God’s help and my own, we’d give it a hell of a try. He’s a sweet and loving man. He calls me the replacement baby, for I had been brought into the world to replace his dearly loved sister, that poor unfortunate girl. I accepted her legacy with pride.

  Zachary Clovin, whatever he had been, was no more. And the few of us who knew who he really was would take that terrifying truth to our graves. I’m no longer worried about my genetics, the threat of diabetes, or anything that had carried across to me from Zachary Clovin. I’m a product of my environment. Looking back, my environment had been pretty damn good.

  I thought that attending his funeral would kill me, but it didn’t. As strong as I was before this all happened, I was stronger now and thoroughly convinced to continue my career in law enforcement. I now had a new reason for being a cop. I wanted to make up for the horrible acts Zachary Clovin had committed. Justice had become my mission.

  The nightmares have finally stopped. Modern psychiatry will tell you that it’s just not possible, but somehow, I had seen what my biological mother, burnt, bloody, and pregnant, had seen almost thirty years ago as she was being rushed into the emergency room. Doc Howls had falsified a slew of documents. He had pronounced mother and unborn child dead on arrival. I now know that my biological mother had survived long enough to see me born.

  I guess what they say is true: God works in mysterious ways. Doc Howls must have collected a bundle for illegally orchestrating my adoption, as I’m sure he did with all the other babies he had sold. I was brought up by fine people who taught me the value of freedom. Howls ended up losing his own.

  My relationship with Ma would remain unchanged and cherished for the rest of our lives. My parents had no knowledge of Howls’ illegal activities. As far as they and the state of New York were concerned, everything was completely legitimate. I would have liked to know my biological mother. I would have liked to have found out the truth much sooner, but I have no complaints about who I am or how I got here. I was loved and nurtured by two of the finest people who ever walked the Earth. As an added benefit, I can now eat Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food with reckless abandon. Case closed.

  Dr. Nigel Twain had performed an amazing piece of detective work, piecing together Pruett’s story: Doc Howls’ foul crimes and the secret of my adoption.

  Perhaps the years of LSD-expanded consciousness had helped him. If you believe as he does that life is preordained, then perhaps he was born specifically for this reason, to reunite me with my brother and bring an end to the misery and madness of Zachary Clovin. Of course, he should have told me that Ma couldn’t be my biological mother because of our different blood types. Oh, and sharing his other discovery with me would have been nice too. You know
which one, the picture of my parents taken shortly before my birth, the one in which Ma wasn’t pregnant.

  Twain took a real chance playing detective on his own. He could have gotten himself killed and jeopardized the case. God knows I’ll never forgive him for breaking into my apartment. But Twain had acted out of love and his devotion to healing and righteousness. He proved to be a true friend, one I was counting on to help me overcome the enormous emotional burden, newly weighted upon my shoulders. His odd brand of medicine had proven most effective.

  I lifted my head off the towel. The sun was baking me like a clam as I rested on the deck of my new boat, Ma’s fifty-thousand-dollar contribution toward my emotional health and well being. I peered over the railing at Richard and Twain from where we were anchored, just a few hundred feet from the jetty. Twain had promised Pruett that Richard would be in good hands. After all, Pruett had raised Richard as if he were his own and spared him the pain of growing up as a murderer’s son. Although Zachary Clovin did not stand trial thirty years ago, the people of Quarrier knew the truth. Pruett had promised to visit, but had yet to specify a date. I didn’t know if we’d ever see that country boy in the big city, but if he wasn’t coming, I’d go to him. I owed that man a righteous hug and then some.

  The boys were fishing off the pier. Richard was showing Twain how to bait a hook. Yes, Twain had been rewarded for his efforts. His life or death decision not only saved Richard’s life, it ended Twain’s years of seclusion and phobia. For years, men have been telling me that I have a magical touch. Perhaps there’s some truth to it, one touch and Nigel Twain was cured forever. Yes, of course, I saved his life, but you know that already.

  I waved to them and they both waved back. Twain was grinning happily and fitting an earthworm over the end of his fishing hook.

  My Saint Christopher medal was hot as a stone, but now that I had it back, I would never take it off again. I slid it along its chain until it rested alongside me on the deck. It meant more to me than ever, for it had been given to me by a very special friend.

  Gus was lying facedown on a towel just a foot or so away. “You’d better turn over,” I instructed. “I’m going to need that body tonight and I don’t want to hear about your terrible sunburn.” Gus winked at me, then closed his eyes. He was proving to be the man I knew he could be. His hair was mussed from swimming. It was the little-boy look on the body of a real man, a man with a heart and soul. It didn’t take much getting used to.

  A stiff breeze whipped by, cooling the moisture on my skin. I felt so good, I almost wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I don’t believe in sappy endings. Life is to be enjoyed unconditionally. Remember that and have a great life.

  QUICKSILVER

  By

  Toni Dwiggins

  Quicksilver Copyright 2013 by Toni Dwiggins.

  All rights reserved.

  Web: http://www.tonidwiggins.com/

  FB: https://www.facebook.com/ToniDwigginsBooks

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/g-vtM

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.”

  ― Mark Twain

  I had some help identifying the wrong words:

  Heartfelt thanks to the following, for support, suggestions, information, expertise, and for reading and commenting on the beta draft:

  Tom Colby, G. Nelson Eby, Raymond C. Murray, Richard Quinn, Catherine Thomas-Nobles, Emily Williams, J.T. Yeager.

  The California Gold Country

  Within rectangle: general neighborhood of story

  The Yuba River Watershed

  EPIGRAPH

  There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;

  It’s luring me on as of old;

  Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting

  So much as just finding the gold.

  — Robert W. Service

  1

  The man who had hired us took the lead.

  His name was Robert Shelburne and he was as sure of this path as he was of himself.

  Nevertheless—if anyone was asking—I sure could not recommend this way up the mountain. There was no trailhead. There was no trail—the path did not exist on the map I carried. It was a rogue route, blazed long ago, surviving today as little more than a hint. It shot straight up the slope and was so thickly haired with trees and brush that we were nearly hiking blind.

  I heard my partner Walter Shaws, a couple dozen feet below on the path, muttering words he would not normally speak aloud. Walter and I have certainly hiked plenty of unofficial trails and exploited the terrain where no trails run at all, in rougher country than this—we’re geologists who read earth evidence from crimes and crises, which often takes us deep into the field. Still, we weren’t in the habit of bushwhacking up a mountain without good reason.

  Robert Shelburne had given a reason for taking this route.

  Good or not was yet to be seen.

  As we climbed, a breeze kicked up and brought an odd vegetative odor, which I could not identify. Clearly it didn’t come from the rangy manzanita or deer brush that infested the path. It came from deeper into these oak-and-pine wooded slopes, or perhaps up higher.

  Up ahead, Shelburne disappeared into the timber as if he’d been consumed.

  For a moment I was disconcerted. What if he took a turn that we, in turn, missed? What if the path branched left and we went right? Bad form for two geologists to lose the client in the field. I shouted, “Slow down.”

  From the woods above came the reply, “I’ve stopped.”

  Lost his way? I picked up my pace and called to Walter to pick up his and a half-minute later I crashed through the brush and found Robert Shelburne kneeling on the path.

  I couldn’t see around him. I said, “Find something of interest?”

  He got to his feet and brushed dirt off the knees of his stylish hiking pants and adjusted the hip belt of his backpack and then, almost in afterthought, he stood aside to reveal the ground where he’d knelt. On the trail was a bandana, moon-silver and dirt-smeared. If this had been a proper trail I would have assumed that a random hiker had wiped grime from his face and gotten careless stashing the bandana in his backpack.

  The chance of that, here and now, was not worth discussing.

  Walter drew up, winded, and crowded in beside Shelburne. Walter in his battered gear and weathered face looked like he’d been out in the field for weeks. Shelburne in his upscale gear and cultivated tan looked ready for a photo shoot for Outside Magazine. As for me, I was comfortable in aged boots and worn backpack, female and unweathered enough to take notice of Shelburne’s stylish look, acutely aware of the messages we sent with the gear we chose.

  Like bandanas.

  Walter was now studying the bandana in the dirt. “That’s his?”

  “I’d bet the farm on it,” Shelburne said.

  “Meaning what?” I asked. “He flagged the trail?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “And the color?”

  Shelburne cocked his head.

  “Silver,” I said. “Unless you’d call it light gray.”

  “Silver,” Shelburne agreed. “That’s his color.”

  “So do you read anything into that?”

  “Beyond the color identifying it as his bandana?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Beyond that.”

  “I could read things into the color silver until the cows come home.”

  “I was thinking in particular about his state of mind.”

  “The state of his mind,” Shelburne said, “is chaotic.”

  Walter cleared his throat. “And yet functional enough. Else we wouldn’t be here tracking him.”

  We fell silent, gazing down at the bandana. There was no way to tell if it had been dropped a day ago, an hour ago, minutes ago. The ground was thin-soiled, thick with fallen pine needles. No footprints to be examined, identified.

  Shelburne turned to go.

  Walter said, “Are you going to leave it there?�
��

  “Message sent,” Shelburne said. “Message received.”

  “Okay then,” I said, “message being we’re on the right track. No need to bet the farm.”

  Shelburne smiled but there was caution in his eyes.

  “Well.” Walter plucked up the bandana and stowed it in his pack. “At the least, good wilderness manners.”

  We continued our ascent, stringing out along the narrow path, Shelburne picking up his impatient pace, Walter soon lagging, me claiming the middle, keeping track of my companions. I tracked Walter by the sound of his heavy breathing. For the briefest moment the thought floated he’s getting slower in the field. And then the thought went away. I tracked Shelburne by the red of his backpack, which stood out from the green of the brush. I wondered if he was brooding on the color silver.

  That odd smell came again—something loamy and rotting, it seemed, beneath the trees beyond the brush.

  I thought, not for the first time today, this is not my turf.

  Ten minutes later the trail jacked hard left and then like a gift the trail and I escaped the besieging woods.

  We’d achieved the upper slope and it was paved by a field of bedrock. Rubbed raw by ancient fingers of ice, this field was not going to give us an easy traverse. The rock was too steep for us to take a high line, and I saw no ducked trail marking, no little pyramid of stones to point the way.

  But Shelburne quickly found his traverse, charging ahead.

  I followed.

  Bare-bone bedrock would normally lift my heart, but not here, not now, not pinned to the rock face with a thirty-pound pack on my back and that bandana on my mind.

  I looked back and saw Walter, just beginning the traverse. Slower in the field, yes, but sure-footed. Not young, but surely not old.