FOUR
MULE DEER LODGE
TRULUCK, CALIFORNIA
Sloane didn’t know if the unusual spelling had been deliberate, or just a mistake by settlers delirious with gold fever. Truluck’s block-long Main Street sprang up as suddenly and unexpectedly as the other small towns through which they had driven. Sloane guessed no more than two dozen buildings bordered a county road a mile or so off the highway, itself nothing more than two lanes of black asphalt winding through barren hills of sunburned grass and gnarled oak trees.
They drove past the Truluck Hotel, E. E. Werner’s Drugstore, Milt’s General Store, a tannery, and a bakery, with Molia providing commentary of how the town sprang to life in 1848 and swelled to a population of nearly eighteen thousand during the gold rush peak. While the other towns they had driven through appeared worn and tired, Truluck looked and felt like one of those tourist towns in a wild west theme park with the freshly painted storefront facades, fake cowboys staging shoot-outs in the streets, and stuntmen tumbling off roofs into hidden cushions to the delight of audiences. But Truluck wasn’t a Hollywood re-creation. Molia explained that the fresh paint and otherwise well-kept appearance was likely the result of the town being named a California Historical Landmark.
“After we get settled we’ll have dinner at Whistling Pete’s Saloon. How’s that sound?” Molia asked.
T.J. had the window down, head sticking out like a dog, delighted by it all. “Is that the place with the bullet holes in the ceiling?”
“Came from the gun of none other than Billy the Kid, they say.” Molia gave Sloane a shrug. “And I’ll show you the table at which President Theodore Roosevelt ate dinner.”
“Cool,” T.J. said.
Jake offered no response. He’d abided by Sloane’s request that he not listen to his headphones in the car, but that didn’t mean he’d participate in the conversation. He had largely ignored T.J. who, at fourteen, was significantly smaller and maintained a boyish appearance and enthusiasm. T.J.’s attempts to engage Jake in conversation had been met with either snide remarks or silence, much to Sloane’s embarrassment.
Just outside of town, past the White Oak Cemetery, Molia turned onto a dirt and gravel lot and parked in front of a horse hitching post. The Mule Deer Lodge was a single-story log structure, the rooms accessed off a wood porch shaded by an overhang likely added after the original construction. Several rocking chairs sat motionless on the porch.
“This looks great,” Sloane said, stepping out to a dry heat and the sound of water trickling over rocks. A bank behind the lodge looked down on a creek so clear the water ran nearly invisible.
“Seemed a lot bigger when I was a boy,” Molia said, admiring the lodge. “And the creek seemed a lot smaller. It’s running high this summer from the snowmelt. I caught a trout right off that bank.”
“Can we fish, Dad?” T.J. asked.
“We can try,” he said before turning to Sloane to add, “But I’m not convinced my dad didn’t buy the fish and hook it to my line when I wasn’t looking.”
Inside the lodge, antlered deer heads hung beside gold leaf paintings on red wallpaper. A glass bead chandelier dangled over red velour couches and wingback chairs. Molia tapped the bell on a wood counter, a single ting and a man appeared from a doorway behind the counter, still chewing what he’d bit into and wiping the corners of his mouth with a dish towel.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Molia asked.
“Just finishing up; how can I help you?”
“Looking for a place to rest the dogs,” Molia said.
The man shook his head. “We don’t allow pets.”
“That would be my feet.” Molia gave Sloane a sideways glance. “Reservation is under Molia. Two rooms.”
The clerk considered an old-fashioned hotel register. Sloane didn’t see a computer screen anywhere on the desk. Behind the man, on shelves above mailbox slots labeled for each of the twelve rooms, Sloane read the spines for registers dating as far back as 1847. “Wow. Are those authentic?” he asked.
The clerk didn’t bother to look up. “That’s what they tell me.”
Sloane heard the bells above the door jingle and turned in time to watch Jake leave.
“Why don’t you help Jake get the stuff out of the car,” Molia said to T.J., though Sloane doubted Jake had left to be of help.
“Sorry about Jake.”
“No worries. I explained to T.J. that Jake’s going through a rough patch. He’ll loosen up when we get on the trail. Give him time.”
“I appreciate this, Tom. I know we’re intruding on some fond memories.”
Molia sighed. “The thing about memories is they’re rarely as good as you remember them. We’ll make our own this week.”
The clerk handed them old-fashioned keys attached to wooden doorknobs. “Put that in your pocket and the whole town will think you’re happy to see them,” Molia said.
The clerk didn’t smile. “It keeps people from wandering off with them.”
Outside Molia said, “The man has the sense of humor of a turnip.”
T.J. unloaded their backpacks from the rental and Jake picked up his and started up the porch.
“Can Jake and I share a room?” T.J. asked.
Molia looked to Sloane. “That okay with you?”
Sloane wasn’t so sure. “I don’t want to take you away from your dad,” he said.
But T.J. persisted. “Is it okay, Dad? It’s only for the night; we’ll be hiking tomorrow.”
Molia nodded. “It’s okay with me.”
“That all right with you, Jake?” Sloane asked.
Jake shrugged. “Whatever.”
T.J. stepped onto the porch. “We’ll take seven. That’s my lucky number.”
They dined at Whistling Pete’s, and the ambiance was everything Molia said it would be with barmaids in low-cut hoop dresses and a man in a bowler hat and bow tie banging the keys of an upright piano. Afterward Molia led the way back to the Mule Deer Lodge, and Sloane thought they resembled four outlaws walking the deserted streets of Tombstone in the blue light of a spectacular full moon, the music from the stand-up piano competing with crickets.
“Can T.J. and I go to the general store?” Jake asked. It was the first complete sentence he’d uttered all day.
They stopped in the road. “What do you need?” Sloane asked.
“I just want to get some candy… for me and T.J. to eat in our room while we’re watching TV.” Jake didn’t wait for a response. “We can meet you back at the lodge.”
“We’ll go with you,” Sloane said.
Molia grabbed his arm. “Don’t be long. We have an early start in the morning.”
“No, we won’t be,” Jake said. “Come on, T.J.”
T.J. looked thrilled at the invitation, which Jake had expected. He was like one of those annoying little dogs bouncing around every time someone tossed a stick. “Can we go fishing?” “Can we see the bullet holes?” “Can we have our own room? Huh? Can we? Can we?”
The bullet holes turned out to be two holes in the ceiling. Big freaking deal. You couldn’t even tell a bullet made them. And T.J. made an even bigger deal about the table and chair where Roosevelt supposedly got drunk. The saloon hung a black-and-white picture on the wall of Roosevelt sitting with a group of people and strung a red rope around the table and chairs like it was in some museum. Who gave a shit? It was just a freaking table and chair.
And look here, the toilet that Roosevelt sat on!
The general store smelled like a basement cellar, and the pickings on the shelves were slim, mostly fishing tackle and the stupid souvenirs tourists buy, like refrigerator magnets and hats and T-shirts with TRULUCK on them. Jake made his way to a standing freezer at the back of the store.
“Jake, the candy’s over here,” T.J. said.
“Yippee,” Jake muttered. He found what he wanted: beer. He chose two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which was the cheapest. The key was not to hesitate, but when T.J. caught sight of
what Jake held, his eyes grew to the size of saucers, totally blowing it.
“What are you doing?”
“Shut up.” Jake looked over his shoulder. Luckily the cashier was waiting on other customers.
“You can’t buy that; you’re not old enough.”
“Why don’t you broadcast it,” Jake said. “Just shut up. Don’t say anything.” Jake turned toward the counter and spoke in a normal tone. “Come on, T.J., make up your mind. Dad wants me to get you home before it gets too late.” He made his way to the register and put the two cans of beer on the counter. “My brother can never decide what candy he wants. Takes him forever. Pack of Marlboro Gold please.”
He fished his money out of his front pocket and peeled off a twenty, putting it on the counter. The cashier had one of those thin and craggy faces, like the freaks they find to play the undertaker in horror movies. Bells chimed. Jake looked over his shoulder at another couple walking into the store. T.J. put a single candy bar on the counter.
“Is that all?” Jake chuckled. “You were whining about getting candy all evening. Go get some more.”
“I don’t want any more.”
The cashier picked up the candy bar and pressed the keys on an old-fashioned cash register. “Dollar fifty,” he said.
Jake looked up at him. “You didn’t ring up my beer and cigarettes.”
“No I didn’t.”
Jake opened his wallet and slapped his fake ID on the counter. “It’s okay. I know I look young, but I’m twenty-one.”
The man picked up the license and studied it. Then he put it down and slid it back across the counter. “Maybe in Washington. Not in California.”
“What are you talking about? That’s an official Washington license.”
“You want the candy bar or you want me to call the police? If you’re twenty-one, I’ll buy you the damn beer myself.”
Jake glared at him. Ordinarily he’d have called the man’s bluff. If he actually called the police Jake could run and be long gone before they arrived, but there wasn’t anyplace to run in this shithole of a town, and Jake was already on parole. Better to cut his losses and just leave. Then the man took back the license.
“On second thought, I think I’ll hold on to this and call first thing tomorrow morning to see if the Washington DMV has any record of a Jim Peterson.”
“Hey, give me it back; you have no right to take it.”
“I do if I suspect it’s a fake. And I suspect it’s a fake.” He hit the cash register. Bells rang and the tray door popped open. The man slid the license in the drawer and slammed it closed. “Now get out of my store, punk.”
“What did you call me?”
“I said get out. We don’t like your type here in Truluck.”
“What type is that, someone with a brain?”
The man started from behind the counter. “Get out.”
“Not until you give me back my license.”
“Forget it, Jake, let’s just leave,” T.J. said.
“Not without my license,” Jake said. Others in the store stood watching. “It’s mine and I want it back.”
The man stepped up to him. “Get out, or I’m going to throw your ass out into the street.”
Jake took a step back. “You touch me and my father will sue the shit out of you and I’ll own this store and the whole crappy town.”
The man took another step toward them. “Why don’t you go and get him and we can discuss that license of yours.”
T.J. grabbed his sleeve. “Jake, let’s go.”
Jake pulled his arm free. “Maybe I will get him.”
“I’d listen to your friend.”
“He’s not my friend and I’m not leaving until you give me back my license.”
“Last warning, kid.”
“Jake, come on.”
“You’re walking out of here or you’re flying out. Take your choice.”
“Give me back—”
The man’s hand shot out, grabbed a bunch of Jake’s shirt beneath his chin, and spun him. The next thing Jake knew he was being shoved toward the door, the man gripping him by the collar, the way someone lifts a cat off the ground. Caught unaware, Jake’s feet shuffled forward before he had time to dig in his heels.
“Get your hands off me. Let go of me. I’m going to sue you for assault and battery.”
Jake grabbed the doorframe, used it for leverage, and spun behind the man. He brought his arms up and under the man’s armpits, locking his fingers behind the man’s head. It wasn’t easy, because the man was tall, but Jake had perfected the wrestling move over three years and it caught the man completely off guard. “T.J., get my license!”
T.J. stood stunned.
“T.J.!”
The man reached back, grabbed Jake’s wrist, and bent suddenly forward at the waist. Jake felt his feet lift from the ground, his body going heels over head. He landed on his back on the boardwalk. The next thing he knew he was tumbling into the street. He got to his feet in time to see T.J. running from the store.
“You come back and I’ll call the police and have your ass put in jail,” the cashier said. Then he turned and walked back inside.
T.J. stood on the boardwalk, mouth agape. “Nice going,” Jake growled. He started down the street, T.J. jogging to catch up. Jake wheeled on him. “I told you to get candy. You get one candy bar? Don’t you know anything? Are you that stupid?”
“I didn’t know you were going to do that.”
“You don’t get one thing. You get a bunch of stuff so the guy doesn’t pay attention to the beer. He just wants the money. You made it too obvious.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now I lost my license. Do you know what it cost me to get that? And I have to spend the entire night with you without anything to drink or smoke.” He imitated T.J.’s voice, an octave higher. “I know. Maybe we can grab our fishing poles and pretend there are fish in the creek, or look for footprints where Joe Blow Bad Guy once stepped.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t get my license back.” Jake walked faster. “Just shut up. Don’t talk to me. It’s bad enough I have to spend the night with you.”
T.J. startled awake. The silhouette stood in the frame of the open door, a shadow backlit by the light of the moon. He nearly screamed, thinking it the cashier, or maybe the police, but the shadow did not walk into the room. It walked out, closing the door. When T.J. looked to his left he saw Jake’s empty bed.
He threw off the covers, slipped his feet inside his high-top tennis shoes, leaving the laces untied, and grabbed his fleece. By the time he pulled open the door Jake had reached the end of the parking lot, a shadow turning left, toward town. T.J. looked for the key to the room, but it was not on the dresser where he had put it that night. He left the door open a crack and stepped down onto the porch. His shoes crunched the gravel despite his attempts to step lightly. At the edge of the parking lot he paused and looked around the corner. Jake continued toward town, twenty yards ahead. T.J. contemplated going back, waking his father and David, but that would get Jake in trouble, and Jake already hated him. When they returned from the store he’d spent the rest of the night lying on his bed with his earphones on, eyes closed. T.J. tried to talk to him, but Jake had shut him out. He finally gave up and pulled out the paperback he’d brought, reading with the television on.
T.J. kept enough distance so Jake wouldn’t hear his footsteps. At one point Jake turned and looked back down the road, but T.J. slipped into the shadows of the trees and tall grass, waiting until Jake walked on.
The streets of Truluck had gone to bed, the town blanketed by a night sky overflowing with stars. Jake stopped outside the general store and T.J. moved behind one of the posts holding up a wooden awning over Candy’s Ice Cream & Treats, watching. Jake looked around before pulling something from his pocket, holding it by his side as he walked up the steps onto the boardwalk. T.J. crept closer, squatting. Whatever Jake had in his hand, he used it to sma
sh one of the windowpanes in the door. The glass crunched and clinked as it hit the wood boardwalk, the sound carrying. T.J. looked about but the streets remained deserted. Jake reached through the hole, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He’d come back to get his license.
T.J. ran farther down the street to the alley between the pharmacy and the general store, fear making him sick. He again considered going back to the lodge but instead crept up the wooden steps onto the boardwalk and looked inside the storefront window but did not see Jake at the cash register. When he pulled back he noticed the sticker in the lower corner, the kind people put in their windows or on a sign staked in the lawn to let robbers know their home is protected by a security system. The realization came at the same time he saw the headlights of the car moving swiftly down Main Street.
Silent alarm.
He contemplated running. Instead, he went inside the store. “Jake? Jake?”
Jake materialized out of the darkness, holding a six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka. “What are you doing here?”
“The police are outside; this place has a silent alarm.”
Jake moved to the window, looking out into the street. “Let’s go.” He hurried down a narrow hall at the back of the store into a room with a desk squeezed amid stocked shelves and an old-fashioned sink with exposed pipes running along brick walls. Jake pulled open the back door but hesitated when something else caught his attention.
“What are you doing?”
Jake shoved the vodka bottle and six-pack against T.J.’s chest. He had no alternative but to take them or have them crash to the floor. Floorboards creaked inside the store. A light swept across the darkness at the end of the hall.
Jake returned, holding a rifle and a box of shells.
T.J.’s knees weakened.
Jake smiled. “Come on, we’ll have some fun.”
“No, Jake, put it back.”
“Don’t be such a pussy.”
Footsteps approached. The beam of light crept farther down the hall. When T.J. turned back Jake had already fled out the door into the alley.
The Conviction Page 3
