by Sylvia Nobel
“Does it cost that much? It’s like renewing tags on your car, right?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Exactly. Twenty-five dollars. You can buy them online and they’re good for a year, but he made a huge deal about not having the use of his quad for his planned excursion.”
I absorbed the information thinking that now it made sense that they’d rented quads in Crown King. “Did you see them together after that day?”
She thought for a few seconds. “As I recall, the young woman didn’t enter the picture until several days later. She asked if it would be okay if she left her car here in the staging area because they were going to travel together in his camper.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?”
“First and last. After that whopping storm ended and the snow started to melt, I noticed her car was still here and that’s when I realized something might be wrong.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
“Last Wednesday. I’d just finished pulling a truck out of a snowdrift and jumping another car when Burton drove up and gave me the bad news. I called the sheriff right away.” We exchanged a somber glance and she tacked on, “Pretty sad situation.”
“Very. And speaking of tragic situations, I just finished reading the police report on two men who also died recently in this general vicinity.” I filled her in on what I’d learned and asked if she’d had contact with either of them.
She smoothed a few tendrils of wind-ruffled hair behind one ear. “I encountered the filmmaker several times because he hung around here for weeks trying to interview people. His name was Luke something or other. He got really huffy when I declined to be on camera, but I answered all of his questions about what impact I thought a freeway would have on this whole region. He also wanted to know how I felt about the environmental impact of the gravel company.”
I tilted my head at her. “And how do you feel about it?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t like it very much, but it’s on private land so we can’t do anything about it.”
I nodded. “What about Benjamin Halstead, the surveyor?” I asked, checking the time on my phone. “Did you have any discussions with him?”
Her features brightened considerably at the mention of his name. “Many. Benjamin was here working on and off for a couple of months.” But then her smile faded. “I felt sorry for the poor kid.”
“Why?”
“Because, his job with the Department of Transportation put him on everyone’s shit list. But he really had two strikes against him.”
“How so?”
“Not only do most of the people around here oppose the idea of the freeway, the environmentalists hated him too. A bunch of activists got involved, claiming that John Hinkle and the state were colluding to put the freeway through here because he’d profit from the sand and gravel company selling the product to help build it. They’re out here picketing the gravel company every couple of weeks. Anyway, John Hinkle ended up in a protracted legal battle, saying he could do what he damn well pleased with his own property and finally won in court. Folks are still against the freeway, but they’ve softened their stance against the gravel company because it provides jobs.” She grinned wryly. “That’s what people call a Catch-22, right?”
“I guess so. So, the locals resented Benjamin because he was the road surveyor? That seems silly.”
“In their minds, he was working for the enemy,” she responded, her lips pinched together for emphasis. “Hardly any of the residents would talk to him and he seemed genuinely grateful that I would stop and chat with him once in a while.”
“Did he commute from Phoenix everyday?”
“No, he was renting a room from some lady in Black Canyon City from what I recall. He said he really loved being in this area since he’d grown up in Cave Creek. I’d see him here sometimes on weekends hiking or camping.”
“Anything else you can tell me about him?”
She pondered my question for several seconds. “Nothing much more except that he seemed to be a nice, upstanding young man,” she remarked with a veneer of wistfulness entering her voice. “And nice-looking too. It was quite a surprise to hear about his accident. In fact, I was pretty shocked.”
“Why’s that?”
The cleft between her blonde brows deepened. “Because witnesses reported that he acted drunk or spaced-out before he left the Crown King Saloon and subsequently ran off the road that night.”
I eyed her reaction with interest. “You seem skeptical.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because he told me he was a Mormon. Mormons don’t usually drink, do they?”
“Not devout ones, maybe Jack Mormons. Do you know who any of the witnesses are?”
“I don’t, but it’s probably in the report. Or you could talk to Cal Moreland. He’s the bartender up there. He might remember who else was there that night.”
The last part of her sentence was almost drowned out when two huge trucks hauling rock roared by in a cloud of dust. They had no sooner disappeared around the corner than another truck appeared and sped by in the opposite direction. She glared after it, lamenting, “Those damn trucks are a nuisance. It was sure a lot quieter around here before the gravel company opened.”
For a couple of seconds, I watched the truck until it was out of sight and then turned back to Linda. “Where are they taking the loads, do you know?”
“To a plant in Mesa. Jack Loomis told me that one is open to the public where the Raven Creek operation isn’t.”
“Does he own the company?”
“No, he’s the foreman. Harvel Brickhouse told me it’s owned by some big wheeler-dealer in Phoenix. I overheard some of the locals at the Cleator bar saying that he makes an appearance every once in a while, but I’ve never met him.”
I was running short on time, so I thanked her and returned to my Jeep, mulling over everything she had told me. On the surface, it appeared unlikely that Benjamin Halstead’s accident had anything at all to do with what had happened to Jenessa and Nathan, but when I added in the bizarre death of the filmmaker, Luke Campbell, the startling common denominator became apparent. Was it a coincidence that each one of them had been hiking or camping in this general area and that all four deaths had been classified as accidental? As I looked searchingly towards the rugged hills, I could not shake the instinctive feeling that there was something else at play. Now, I was anxious to find out what other pertinent information might be contained in the rest of the report. I also made a note to contact the bartender at the Crown King Saloon.
Tooling along through Bumble Bee, it appeared just as deserted as it had yesterday except for two young men standing near a quad parked in front of the boarded up store. One of them, talking on his cell phone, looked up and stared at me as I drove by. I looked back and he was still watching me. Puzzled, I turned back and continued along the dusty road towards Cleator.
Powerful wind gusts intermittently buffeted the Jeep and sent tumbleweeds skimming across the road. Good thing I was concentrating because all at once two guys racing dune buggies side by side tore around the blind corner headed right at me. Reaction time? Zero. Wrenching the wheel sharply to the right, I careened off the road, skidded through a section of broken range fence and bounced out into the desert, barely avoiding several giant boulders. I crashed through a mesquite thicket before sliding to a stop at the edge of a stock pond. Shaking all over, my heart pounding, I sat there struggling to catch my breath. Oddly enough, as if something like this happened daily, the half dozen black cows grazing nearby didn’t even move and stood observing me with solemn brown eyes. No question about it. That had been a close call. If I’d hit the rocks head-on I could have been toast. What a bunch of irresponsible shitheads! I darted a look out the passenger side window, shouting, “Freakin’ morons!” Nothing except a
curtain of dust remained in sight, but then another vehicle appeared heading in the same direction. This time though it wasn’t an ATV, pickup or dune buggy, but a dark-colored Hummer with heavily tinted windows. The driver appeared to pause for a few seconds before accelerating past. Whoever it was had surely seen what happened and apparently didn’t give a crap whether I’d been hurt or not.
“Thanks a pantload!” I yelled, jumping out to inspect the Jeep. My wild charge through the brush had left several ugly scratches in the paint. “Son-of-a-bitch! Are you kidding me?” I screamed aloud, mournfully running my finger along the grooves, thinking that, for outdoor enthusiasts, desert pin striping was like a badge of honor, but for me, not so much. Overcome by intense anger, I just lost it. I kicked the tires, the dirt, the rocks and let loose with a tirade loud enough to finally startle the cows. They galloped away into the brush so I forced myself to calm down. Breathing deeply, I felt the flames of a legendary O’Dell temper tantrum diminishing. What the hell was wrong with people anyway? What possessed them to drive like absolute maniacs on these back roads with total disregard for others? I reached for the door handle and groaned aloud when another thought occurred to me. Oh man! Tally was going to have a field day with this latest scrape and I’d never hear the end of it. I was fast developing a reputation for trashing cars while on assignment. The list now included a Mercedes, a classic Packard, my precious Volvo and, just mere weeks ago, a pickup I’d borrowed from Tally. Not a good track record.
Still fretting, I re-started the engine and resumed travel along the winding road, my pulse rate slowly returning to normal. When I approached the dilapidated bar in Cleator, I had to weave my way around an assortment of pickups, Jeeps, crappy old cars and several ATVs parked at odd angles. Poised to accelerate up the hill, I paused when something caught my eye. The unexpected sight sent my heart rate rocketing right back up again. Braking to a stop, I stared in utter disbelief at the BAD BOY sticker prominently displayed on the back window of a shiny, black pickup truck. It couldn’t be! And yet I knew it had to belong to the Hinkle brothers. I felt like I’d swallowed ground glass. “Un-friggin’ real,” I murmured. Inundated with a strong sense of foreboding, my mind grappled with the question of what these two characters were doing in Cleator of all places. It seemed everywhere I went, there they were—Tally’s barbeque, Jerome and now here. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than the two, of them along with another young guy, emerged from the bar deep in conversation with Jack Loomis from the gravel company. Really? Intrigued, I slid a little lower and cautiously shielded my face behind my hand. I was pretty sure the Hinkles didn’t know what kind of a vehicle I owned, but wasn’t so sure about Jack Loomis. Bright, iridescent lime-green Jeeps tended to draw attention. I powered the window down, wishing I could hear what they were saying but the wind obscured their voices until I heard a clear, “Better not screw this up or he’s gonna have your hide this time!” Jack gave them a taut one-fingered salute and retreated inside the bar while the Hinkle brothers glowered after him before jumping in their truck. Danny or Daryl, I couldn’t tell which from this distance, revved it loudly and to my surprise, turned in the same direction I was headed. Relief flowed through me. Good. They hadn’t seen me.
Curious as to what the twins were doing with Mr. Moneybags, I followed them for several miles and it wasn’t until I crossed over a cattle guard near the entrance to the McCracken Ranch did it dawn on me why they would be in this area. Of course! The realization helped dispel a small measure of discomfort. Most likely they’d been going to the ranch ever since Elizabeth had married John Hinkle. And because the sand and gravel company was located on McCracken property, that probably explained how they knew Jack Loomis. Perhaps it was not unusual for them to be in Cleator after all. Still, I could not shake a lingering apprehension. Maybe if the Hinkle boys weren’t so damn smarmy and hadn’t established such a problematic connection with Sean, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
CHAPTER
22
Deep in thought, I continued to follow their pickup from a distance along the dusty, curving road. When four young guys in a Jeep with the top down roared up behind me, music blaring full blast, I eased to the side of the road allowing them to pass. Good. Less chance of the Hinkles spotting me now with another vehicle between us. They disappeared around the bend and when I caught up with them, I had to practically stand on the brakes to keep from slamming into the back of their Jeep. What the…? Pulse throbbing in my throat, I sat there behind the rowdy boys, the Hinkles, an old gray van and two couples astride ATVs, all at a dead stop waiting for two dump trucks from the gravel company to cross the one lane bridge.
“Oh, cut me a break!” I muttered aloud, my belly clenched with aggravation from the constant delays. Already late for my appointment, I grabbed up the phone and dialed Burton Carr’s number, only to have it go straight to voicemail. No cell service, of course. Just my luck.
As I sat there studying the weatherworn stone bridge that looked like it had been there forever, I wondered what would happen if it was ever out of commission. No doubt, it would present a vexing problem for people trying to get into or out of Crown King and Raven Creek. As the noisy trucks rumbled by, the young Hispanic man I’d glimpsed yesterday exchanged a greeting with the Hinkle boys and then flashed me a friendly smile and waved. I lifted my hand in response and then noticed that Rod, the same surly guy from yesterday’s altercation with Darcy, sat hunched behind the wheel of the second truck. He did not smile or wave, just glared and drove by. Not exactly the friendliest person on earth, to say the least.
A mile later, the twins turned sharply into the gravel company entrance and vanished into the distance. I was not surprised, but wondered what business they would have there. What was their connection with Jack Loomis? Other than the fact that the company was operating on ranch property, why would he have anything to do with those two lowlifes?
My cell phone chimed and I glanced at the screen. Seeing that it was a text from Ginger, I pulled off the road and stopped to read it. DRIVING AUNT MARCELENE 2 PHOENIX 2MORROW 2 GET JENESSA’S IMPOUNDED CAR. FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS IN PROGRESS. MY SISTER BONNIE IS COMING 2MORROW NIGHT. DON’T WORRY. STILL WORKING ON PARTY PLANS IN BETWEEN. DO YOUR THING, GIRL! YAK AT YA LATER. ☺ HUGS!
Hmmm. Well there went my opportunity to question Marcelene. Now it would have to wait until Wednesday. I texted her back. ALMOST THERE. WILL TAKE PHOTOS FOR YOU AND MARCELENE. HUGS BACK AT YA!
I shifted into a lower gear and continued up the hill to the turnoff. Half an hour later, I arrived at the junction and spied Burton Carr’s aqua-blue vehicle parked on the north side of the left hand fork. As I pulled along side he looked up from whatever he was reading and greeted me with a polite nod. I slid from the Jeep, calling out, “Hi there! Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.”
The escalating wind tore at my hair, whipping it across my eyes and making me wish I’d taken the time to corral it into a ponytail. “Thanks for meeting me. So, what’s the game plan?”
“Follow me to the gate. It’s only a mile or so. You can leave your vehicle at the road entrance and ride with me.” He patted his shirt pocket. “I have a permission slip for you to sign.”
I balked. “Why can’t I drive my own car?”
He shook his head while simultaneously extracting a pen and picking up a clipboard from the passenger seat. “Against the rules, I’m afraid. And too dangerous. The road is decommissioned, so if you’re caught driving on it by one of our law enforcement officers, you could be ticketed and I doubt you’d want that, am I correct?”
“You are.”
A thin smile. “I thought so.”
Still not crazy about the idea of leaving my brand new Jeep sitting alone in the forest, I hesitated a few more seconds. “So, you think it’s safe to leave it unattended?”
He didn’t look overly concerned and his demeanor seemed cool. �
��We shouldn’t be gone long. Just make sure it’s locked.” He handed me the form to sign.
Okay. He was either a really mild-mannered guy or still annoyed about my snippy behavior yesterday. If he were that easily offended, I’d best try and get in his good graces if I planned to earn his cooperation.
“All right.” The temperature appeared to be dropping by the second and I shivered slightly as I scanned through the flapping papers, signed, and handed him the clipboard, thinking that I’d definitely be trading my light coat for the down jacket. I started towards my Jeep and then wheeled around. “By the way, you were right about the mountain producing its own weather patterns. The fog was pretty dense here yesterday. And your assessment concerning some of the people was correct as well,” I acknowledged with a sheepish smile.
Apparently mollified, his sullen expression softened to one of gratitude. “Thank you. It’s nice to hear an appreciative word now and then and actually get credit for knowing a thing or two once in a while.”
I gathered there was a story behind his cryptic remark but doubted I’d ever find out what it was. I returned to my Jeep, still feeling doubtful about leaving it unattended, and followed behind him, jostling from side to side on the primitive road flanked by intermittent patches of dirty snow. Constantly dipping in and out of bright sunlight and deep shadow made it hard to navigate. I drove past several secluded cabins and rusted mobile homes tucked back in the groves of trees and continued climbing the rough, zigzagging road. As the pines and ground cover grew thicker, I tried to imagine the area buried in three feet of snow and wondered again what Jenessa and Nathan had been doing here. Had they taken a wrong turn in low visibility, or were they hunting for a place to camp for the night and wait out the storm? All at once, Burton Carr’s brake lights lit up and he motioned for me to pull into a narrow clearing adjacent to a sizeable mound of tree limbs, dirt and brush.
