Blood Stone (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 2)

by Michael Allegretto

  He gave her arm a squeeze, then climbed in the back of the Chevy with Willy. Mathew slid into the driver’s seat, spun the tires in the dirt, and drove up the road and around the curve. A few minutes later, they came back down and roared past us in a cloud of dust. Caroline stared after them.

  “He’ll be all right,” I said lamely.

  She didn’t bother to reply.

  We gathered our things off the ground, then drove up the narrow road to a place wide enough to turn around. I saw a truck parked off the road behind some trees—a big blue Dodge pickup with fat tires, a chrome roll bar, and spotlights mounted on the roof. There was no one in sight. Caroline turned the Land Cruiser around, and we headed down the road and out of the mountains.

  “Do you think your grandfather will tell Willy where he hid the jewels?” I asked. “I mean, about the mine shaft.”

  “No, I … I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “If he does, then—”

  “I said no, didn’t I?” Her knuckles were white on the wheel.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, “since he wants to use the reward money to take care of you.”

  She glanced at me, then back at the road, smiling.

  “He said that? And here I thought I was going to take care of him.”

  “Your grandfather wants you to be free from that obligation, Caroline. He wants you to have a life of your own, get married, whatever.”

  She nodded, slowly, sadly. “You know, before my grandfather got out of prison, I was practically engaged to a boy I work with. Jeffrey. But not many people want to be around an ex-con.” Her tone was bitter. “I haven’t seen any of my friends for weeks. I still see Jeffrey at work, but, I don’t know, it’s not like it was before. And maybe I don’t blame him. All I know now is I want to find those jewels and take my grandfather far away from here, away from people like Willy Two Hawks and the rest, someplace where we can both start over.” She smiled. “And five million dollars should give us quite a start.”

  “The reward will be about half a million,” I corrected.

  “Oh, right. Half a million.” But her smile didn’t fade.

  When we got to Caroline’s house, she drove around to the back and parked in the garage. I walked her to the door. All the house lights were out.

  “He probably went to a bar with them,” she said.

  “Do you want me to wait till he gets home?”

  “No.” She went in without saying good night.

  When I got to my apartment, I looked through Lloyd Fontaine’s newspaper clippings until I found a photo of the murder shack. Ever since Soames had insisted I see it, something had bothered me. The picture I held was faded with age, but it more or less resembled the shack Soames had pointed out. But something was definitely wrong.

  And then it hit me.

  I dialed Caroline’s number.

  “We were searching the wrong area,” I told her.

  “What? But my grandfather is certain—”

  “He’s wrong. I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we’ll get it straightened out.”

  Tuesday morning I picked up Caroline at her house.

  “Where’s your grandfather?”

  “He didn’t come home last night.” She sounded more angry than worried. “He’s probably sleeping off a drunk with Willy. Now, what’s this about us searching the wrong area?”

  “You’ve been starting at the wrong point,” I said. “The wrong shack.”

  “What do you mean? You saw the old building.”

  “I saw an old building. Someone told me the murder shack had been torn down.”

  I took U.S. 6 rather than the interstate, because its grade was gentler and the old Olds could do without the added strain. Even so, cars were passing us whenever the road straightened out enough to lose its solid yellow line. That was how I spotted the tan Ford a quarter mile behind us. He was hanging back, keeping his distance, letting cars go around him when they could. But he temporarily created long stretches of empty road between us. Caroline saw me watching the mirror.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got company.”

  She turned in the seat. “The brown car?”

  “I think he’s working with Archuleta,” I said.

  Caroline sat up rigidly and stared straight ahead.

  “Can we outrun him?” she said nervously.

  “Probably not.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We keep going. I doubt he’ll try anything.”

  “What if he does?”

  “Willy’s gun is in the glove compartment.”

  Caroline pressed back in her seat, away from the dashboard—as if “gun” meant “snake.”

  Somewhere before Idaho Springs, the Ford dropped back out of sight. I took the first turnoff into the town and parked near the Gazette building.

  Gladys Hicks led us to Witherspoon’s office. He was on the phone, and he waved us to a seat. There weren’t any. I moved a pile of paper from a chair and let Caroline sit.

  “Jacob Lomax,” he said, hanging up the phone. “I thought I might see you again.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a newsman’s instinct. Hello,” he said to Caroline.

  “Caroline Lochemont, Harry Witherspoon.”

  Witherspoon reached over the mess on his desk and shook her hand. His eyes twinkled at me. He knew something was up.

  “How busy are you?” I asked.

  “I’m always busy.”

  “Maybe we should come back later.”

  “And I can always take time off. What can I do for you?”

  “Show us the site of the murder shack,” I said.

  “You changed your mind, eh? What is it, historical curiosity?”

  “You might call it that.”

  Witherspoon stood and rolled his sleeves down over sinewy forearms. He was in good shape for a guy in his fifties, and he obviously did more than sit behind a desk all day. When we got in my car, he squeezed into the front seat so he could rub knees with Caroline. She didn’t seem to mind. I did.

  I drove up West Chicago Creek canyon. Caroline leaned forward when we approached the swaybacked shack.

  “That’s not it,” Witherspoon said. Then, “So that’s why …”

  “Why what?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  After two or three miles on the curving road, Witherspoon pointed to an asphalt driveway. I pulled into it. The drive led to a wrought iron gate and beyond to a ranch-style home with a shake-shingle roof and three Dobermans that were as motionless as statues, except for the saliva dripping off their bone-crushing teeth. We climbed out of the Olds. One of the dogs barked to tell us not to come closer. We didn’t.

  “The shack was right where the house stands now,” Witherspoon said.

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked at Caroline. “Sure I’m sure. I was here with the cops and took pictures of the whole bloody mess. This is the spot.”

  Caroline’s eyes moved above the house and up the ravine beyond. Witherspoon watched her and smiled, as if he were in on some big secret. I was beginning not to like him.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I drove back to the Gazette.

  “Thanks for the tour,” I told Witherspoon.

  “Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

  What bothered me was that he sounded like he meant it.

  29

  I DROVE US OUT of the mountains, checking the mirror all the way. The tan Ford didn’t show itself. Caroline seemed pleased, but not about that.

  “If it hadn’t been for Harry Witherspoon,” she said, “we might never have figured out the right area to search.”

  “Maybe not. But we’ve got another serious problem.”

  “What?”

  “The Two Hawks family,” I said.

  “Oh. You’re right.”

  “Of course, we can keep them off our backs temporarily.”

  “How?”

 
“We make sure they’re with your grandfather. Like now.”

  She looked puzzled. I suppose because she couldn’t imagine doing anything without Soames.

  “You and I would be free to search the mines,” I explained.

  “I don’t know. …”

  “Why not? You know what to look for, don’t you?”

  “I suppose.” She chewed her lip.

  “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re probably right. But Willy might get suspicious when you and I drive off in my four-wheel-drive loaded with gear.”

  “So we leave it all in your garage and buy whatever we need.”

  She gave me a big smile. “Have you got any money?”

  “Hell, I’ve got plastic.”

  Caroline found most of what we needed at a mountaineering store on Bannock Street—Perlon ropes, oval snap links called carabiners, slings and harnesses, descenders and ascenders, wired nuts, and a backpack to carry it all—pushing my Visa card to the limit. We picked up the hand tools at Target.

  When we got to Caroline’s house, we saw Willy’s Chevy parked out front.

  “They’re back,” I said. “You want me to go in with you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure your grandfather’s all right?”

  “I’m sure,” she said sadly. “He’s done this before—gone drinking with Willy and sons, slept it off at Willy’s house, then come back here the next day to start over with beers from the fridge.” She shook her head, and for a moment I thought she might cry. “He’s still influenced by that … that scum.”

  “Influenced enough to tell them what we’re up to?”

  “Absolutely not,” she snapped.

  “Okay,” I said gently. “Just checking.”

  I drove around to the garage. While Caroline dug through her gear for the quad map, I removed the Land Cruiser’s rotor and put it under the front seat.

  “If Willy’s still here in the morning,” I said, “tell him your car won’t start, then phone me for a ride to work. If he’s not here, tell your grandfather to stay home and give Willy the same story, if he shows up. Can you get someone at work to cover for you in case Willy checks there?”

  “Jeffrey will.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She put her hand on my arm as I turned to leave.

  “Thanks for helping,” she said.

  “Hey, don’t thank me. I’m only in it for the money.”

  She smiled at my little joke. I think it was a joke.

  On Wednesday morning Willy’s Chevy was still parked in front of Caroline’s house. I honked and Caroline came out carrying a purse as big as a shopping bag. She’d smuggled out her hiking boots and a change of clothes.

  “Willy wanted us all to go treasure hunting today,” she said. “But I told him I had to work, and then, of course, my car wouldn’t start. Also, my grandfather isn’t feeling well.”

  “Did Willy buy it?”

  She nodded, unhappily. “But truly, my grandfather isn’t well. It’s the pressure. Everyone’s hounding him for the jewels. And I … I suppose I’m the worst.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I told her, and stopped myself from ending with, “I’d do the same in your position.”

  I drove her to Summer Sky Bicycles and waited in the car while she went in to establish her cover. Then we headed for the hills. As far as I could tell, no one followed us. We didn’t stop until I’d turned up West Chicago Creek. Caroline traced a path on the quad map from the site of the murder shack, up a ravine, to a scattering of mines—perhaps a dozen or so.

  “It’s probably one of these,” she said. “We can drive up this way.” She pointed to a snaky dashed line on the map.

  “That’s not much of a road.”

  “You’re right. Maybe this old bucket can’t make it.”

  “Please don’t call her a bucket,” I said. “Cars have feelings, too, you know.”

  She smiled. “Sorry.”

  We drove several miles past the site of the murder shack and nearly missed the road we wanted because it was so overgrown with scrub brush. It soon deteriorated to a trail. The old Olds didn’t like it one bit. She lurched and groaned and scraped her bottom with a screech, while I struggled to avoid oil-pan-ripping rocks.

  I stopped near some huge boulders that blocked the trail. With Caroline’s Land Cruiser we could have driven around the rocks, up through the trees, and back down to the trail. But the Olds would have none of it, so I shut her off.

  The mines were scattered over several miles of mountainside, and by the time we got to the first one, the stiffness from Monday’s climb had worked itself out of my legs. Caroline and I searched the mine in vain. And the second. The entrance to our third mine had suffered a small rockslide. We spent the rest of the day digging through the entrance—only to find that a few yards farther in the entire tunnel had collapsed. Whether one year ago or fifty, it was impossible to tell.

  “What if this is the one?” I asked Caroline.

  “I don’t know. When we’ve searched the rest, I guess we could come back.”

  “With what? Dynamite and power shovels?”

  “I said I don’t know!” she shouted, then stomped out of the mine. I followed her through the trees and the deep afternoon shadows all the way down to the car. I backed the Olds down off the mountain and stopped at a gas station in Idaho Springs so Caroline could wash up and change clothes. When she climbed back in the car, she looked shiny clean and mollified.

  “Sorry I got mad,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  “It’s just so frustrating.”

  “Tell me.”

  We drove back to the city in silence. When we got to Caroline’s house, Willy’s car was still parked out front.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “We’ll find it,” she said. It was a plea. “We’ve got to.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty,” I said.

  She smiled, then scooted over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and immediately looked embarrassed, which surprised me. She hurried out of the car and practically ran up the walk to her house. Until then I’d been thinking of her in an avuncular way, and I’d assumed she’d been doing the same. I sat there for a few minutes wondering if maybe I’d been missing something, if maybe Caroline and I … But no, I told myself, forget it. She’s just a kid. A sweet, generous, pretty kid. Although nicely developed. Niece, Lomax, think niece.

  Thursday morning I called Abner Greenspan at his home and his office and got recordings at both places. I stopped by my office to check my machine for word from Helen Ester. Nothing. I phoned Greenspan again and left messages on both his machines that Helen Ester had promised me she’d be at the courthouse at one o’clock today to testify on my behalf and thereby blow the case of Dalrymple and Krenshaw right out of the water and, oh, yes, that I would be unavoidably detained.

  I picked up Caroline at her house. Willy’s car hadn’t moved.

  “He spent the night on my couch,” she said with disgust and, I think, fear. “I’m not sure how much longer he’ll buy the story about my car.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” I said. “One way or the other.”

  I left the Olds at the same spot as yesterday, where boulders blocked the trail. Caroline and I shouldered our gear and headed off, each of us fighting a nagging sense of futility.

  We searched most of the day for a mine that appeared plainly on the map but that we were unable to locate. Either the map was wrong, or else the mine’s entrance was completely buried.

  By three-thirty we’d given up and moved on to the next mine on the map. The sky had clouded over, and a cold breeze slapped our faces. I wondered how things had gone with Greenspan and Ester and Dalrymple at my preliminary hearing. Or maybe since I hadn’t been there, Greenspan had gotten it postponed.

  Caroline and I entered the mine. It was
high enough for me to walk nearly erect under the sagging timbers. After we’d advanced thirty or forty feet, there were fewer timbers—the tunnel now bored though mostly solid rock. After a hundred feet, I stopped, even though our lanterns showed the tunnel extending deeper into the mountain. This was the distance Soames remembered encountering the shaft.

  “Far enough, right?” The tunnel walls seemed too damn close, and I could feel their pressure.

  “Wait,” Caroline said.

  She shone her lantern on some boards on the tunnel floor just ahead. We moved closer and saw that the boards partially covered a black, gaping hole.

  “My God,” she said. “This might be it.”

  She knelt down and began pulling boards away from the hole.

  “Be careful,” I cautioned, feeling like a coward for not going nearer the hole.

  After a few minutes she’d completely uncovered the mouth of the shaft. It was rectangular, about three feet wide by six feet long—the size of a grave. It ran lengthwise along the tunnel, leaving enough room to walk past. Caroline lay flat on her stomach and shone her light into the inky black pit.

  “It’s pretty deep,” she said, “but I think I see something down there. Bring your lantern.”

  I crawled forward like a baby, lay down beside her, and shone my light down the shaft, illuminating dust motes. The walls of the shaft were vertical and cut from solid rock. The miners had probably used a winch, long gone, to lower and raise men and ore. There was something at the bottom, a good eighty feet below us. It looked like a dark, lumpy rock, but it was too far away to be certain.

  “I’ll be right back,” Caroline said, and she was gone before I could run out with her.

  I scooted away from the shaft, then took in long slow breaths, trying not to panic in the dark, trying not to dwell on the time when I was a child of five and the bully on the block and his friend rolled me up in a discarded rug in a vacant lot and left me alone with my arms pinned to my sides and my eyes in darkness and my nose pressed against the musty, stifling carpet and I couldn’t unroll myself or even move and if someone didn’t save me I would die, I would suffocate, I would starve, and I was trapped in there for hours and days, it seemed. Finally I was set free by a neighbor lady. She said I’d been trapped for only a few minutes. I still say it was days.