Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  Roy leaned forward. “Hey, don’t you want to know why we’re here?”

  Bates nodded in stupefied acquiescence.

  “See, it’s like this, Cal—vin … .” He drew out the name in singsong fashion, with a hint of a musical rise on the last syllable. “There’s a family matter involved here. We’re here to talk about a guy we think you know, a guy we’ve got business with. Little guy with dark hair and a lot of tattoos, named Donnie. Ring a bell, does it?”

  Bates’s face wrinkled in perplexity.

  “That’s okay, Cal—vin. We’ll give your memory a jog.”

  Roy glanced around the shop, his head swiveling owl-like, the muscular cords flexing on the pale stem of his neck, the white Stetson tracking the room. His gaze stopped on a large plastic reel of heavy-gauge electrical wire. “Jace, cut off about fifteen feet of that wire there on the orange spool.” They waited in the heat, watching as Jason pulled wire from the spool and coiled it around his shoulder and arm. “Yeah, that’ll do. Now bring it on over here, and we’ll play Isaac Parker, just like when you were a kid.”

  Roy turned to Bates. “You know who Isaac Parker was, Bates? He was the hanging judge at Fort Smith, Arkansas. He strung ’em up four and five at a time, an honest-to-goodness law-and-order judge. A real American.”

  Bates shifted around to a position where he could face Roy more directly. “Jesus, I’d tell you if I knew about this Donnie guy, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Roy looked over at Jason and rolled his eyes.

  “Come on, man, I didn’t do anything. You want money?” Bates’s eyes shifted back and forth between Roy and Jace. “Money’s no problem. I’ll make you any kind of gun you want. For Christ’s sake, tell me what you want, you’ve got it. You don’t have to hurt me, man.”

  Roy shook his head in mock disapproval.

  “Jeez, Cal—vin, what kind of guys do you think we are? We’re family guys. You a family guy, Calvin? I mean, are you married—wife, kids, that sort of thing?”

  Bates shook his head.

  “No? That’s sort of what I thought. Well hell, I’m not married, either. A studly type, such as yourself, does better prowlin’ on his own. Right?”

  Bates looked over at Jace’s face, which was eager with anticipation, and then up at Roy. The shock and fear were beginning to register. “Yeah, I suppose so.” His attempt at a grin sort of slid down his face.

  “Like I said, we’re family-oriented.” Roy turned solemn. “That’s the point here, maintaining family values. See, a member of our family was hurt, so we’ve been thinking tit for tat, an eye for an eye, like in the Bible. Now it sorta looks like your family’s gone to the dogs, Cal—vin. Little joke there.”

  Roy pointed his forefinger up toward the iron slope of the ceiling and made a twirling motion. “Okay now. Here we go. Judge Jesus will string up the criminals, the little one first. She’s still sort of lively.” Roy laughed. “You don’t know whether to be relieved or sad, do you, Calvin? Thought we might be stringing you up. Gee whiz, not a nice thought, but the point is, this dog’s first.” He put his forefinger alongside his nose and gave a knowing wink.

  Bates’s body sagged. His face seemed to hang, the flesh pulled downward by gravity and fear. “Hey look, ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. What did this Donnie look like? I don’t know anybody named Donnie.”

  Roy nodded at Jason, who deftly looped the wire around the smaller dog and tossed the remaining wire over the steel I beam that supported the lights and a small hoist.

  “Wait a minute, Jace. Slide the hoist down here. Let’s do this right.”

  Jace’s head twisted back, eyes glittering. “I’m hanging the dog, Roy. This is the bad one. It tried to bite me, and now I’m hanging it.”

  “I never said different, dickbrain. Just go on down and slide the hoist back. Then tie the wire around the hook. See, it’ll be easier.”

  Roy shrugged elaborately. “What can I do, Bates? The guy’s got a mind of his own. Now this guy, Donnie, says he knows you. Truth is, we found your phone number on the wall next to a note, ‘Call for a good time.’ Naw, just kidding. Anyway, Donnie did some work for you. Now my guess, it wasn’t a completely legal deal.”

  “I do stuff for a lot of guys. I don’t remember any Donnie.”

  “Okay, Jesus, take ’er up.”

  “Aw shit, come on, please.”

  The rottweiler’s feet waved frantically in the air. Roy and Jace watched intently. Gasps of guttural wheezing filled the hot stillness of the shop. A cascade of urine streamed from the swinging dog and splashed on the cement floor. Roy stepped quickly back to keep his outfit from being splattered. Jason Miller’s hands tensed on the hoist’s chain, his gaze fixed on the strangling dog. The dog’s paws flipped in the air in spasmodic jerks.

  Bates moaned a sort of distracted prayer. “Oh my God, Jesus, oh my God. You bastards.”

  “Now, now, Cal—vin, don’t be downhearted. You’ve still got old Nero here.” Roy paused. “Nero, right?”

  Bates nodded numbly.

  “Yeah, well, now listen up. Nero’s not out of the woods yet. Jesus here doesn’t much care for Nero, either. Do you, Jesus?” Roy leaned back against the workbench. Jason’s gaze remained fixed on the dead rottweiler swinging gently from the hoist. “So what about Donnie Miller, Cal? Mind if I call you Cal? I figured it would be okay, ’cause we’ve been involved in an intimate emotional experience, witnessing the death of a loved one, right?” Roy’s face wrinkled in concerned inquiry.

  “Anyhow, Donnie Miller, a little guy with tattoos. Oh yeah, and he used a lot of bad language, but a good guy underneath. Heart of gold, like Jesus here, except, of course, he was a liar, a cheat, and full of bullshit, but otherwise a nice guy.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head back and forth. “Yup, outside of that, he was a prince.”

  Roy figured breaking a guy down was just a matter of timing, and it was going just about right. Bates was coming around in a nice predictable sequence: Oh my, what’s happening here? Then: How can you do that? You have no right! Finally, it dawned on the dumb dickheads that they were fucking helpless and that they were looking at a couple a guys who just didn’t give a shit. That’s when they rolled, just like Calvin here.

  “So now that we’re all acquainted, and such, Cal—vin, when did you talk to Donnie?”

  “A little guy, you said, with a lot of tattoos, right?” Bates looked up at Roy for confirmation.

  “That’s my man Donnie. I knew you’d turn out to be a good listener.”

  Bates nodded in eager camaraderie. “I set a guy like that up with one of my clients a few weeks back, around the middle of August. Only he called himself Miller McDonald, not Donnie Miller.” Bates kept nodding his head vigorously. “Shit, yeah, I remember him.” He glanced back at Roy. Some life had oozed back into his face, the ever-present Judas of hope tracing itself in his expression. “Mind if I have a smoke?”

  “Naw, go ahead.” Roy smiled. “But just bring a cigar out of that pocket, okay, Cal? No little surprises.”

  Bates fished out another cigar and went through the ritual of lighting up. Clouds of blue smoke twisted in wraithlike shapes in the column of sunlight streaming in from the clerestory window.

  “So what about this Miller?” Roy sounded interested, conversational, empathetic. He shifted easily from one pathology to another.

  Bates frowned in concentration. “Well, he came around here talking about being a hunting guide. Said he could hook up hunters with Desert bighorns. Said he knew the desert like the back of his hand. I figured he was full of shit, but then one of my customers tells me he wants to complete the grand slam.”

  “Grand slam?”

  “Yeah, the big four, the four kinds of bighorn sheep in North America. It’s a big deal with some hunters, a very big deal, since the desert bighorn is mostly illegal to hunt and hard to find.

  “Well anyhow, this Miller guy starts in telling me he’ll take the
guy out on a guaranteed hunt. No sheep, no pay. So I went for it and lined up Miller as a guide with this doctor. Guy’s a big deal. Has a special clinic for infertility.”

  The dead rottweiler swung gently from the wire. The shadow of the forelegs played across Bates’s chest and face. He squinted up his eyes each time the sunlight hit his face. “Guy forked over cash for expenses and agreed to pay a big bonus for a sheep that would make the book, the Boone and Crockett record book.”

  “How big a bonus?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “How much for Miller?”

  “I told him a thousand. He went for it big-time. That’s when I knew he didn’t know shit about poaching bighorns.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The dumb fuck didn’t know the price of a ticket.”

  “So when did you see him last?”

  “Right here, near the end of August. He came by to show off his AR-fifteen and get me to make it full automatic. I said, ‘What for?’ He sort of grinned and said he had more going on than taking dudes into the desert, like he was some sort of bad man.”

  Roy frowned. “So what happened to the big-ticket doctor? Did he get his big horny sheep, Cal—vin?”

  “Naw, he called me sometime in early September, all pissed off. Said the guide didn’t know jack about hunting. So I lined him up with another guy I know about.”

  “Yeah, what guy was that?”

  Bates puffed on the cigar, blew a smoke ring. He looked up at Roy. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. This guy could get in big trouble for poaching.”

  “Not as much trouble as you’re in, Cal—vin.” Roy looked thoughtful. “You want to be able to find your dick when you take a leak, right, Cal?”

  Bates’s hand moved inadvertently to his crotch. “This guy’s like one of us, right?” Roy’s expression remained neutral. Bates tried again. “You know, a hunter. He calls himself ‘Redhawk,’ but he’s in the Bishop phone book as Eddie Laguna. That’s it. I don’t know another fucking thing. Just that this Miller guy was full of shit. Wish to God I’d never seen him, man.”

  “Yeah, Calvin, he was full of shit, but here’s the funny part. I hope you’re paying attention here. You see, he was our brother, Calvin. We’re the Miller brothers, Roy, Jesus here, and Donnie. And guess what? Donnie’s dead. Some shithead left him out in the desert to die, maybe this fucking doctor, maybe this Redhawk.” Roy looked sad. “So things didn’t work out for brother Donnie, did they?” Bates’s eyes widened with fear. “And here you are, speaking ill of the dead. No bonus from the doc for Donnie, just dying of thirst in the desert. Sort of an ugly way to go, don’tcha think?” Bates nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes away from Roy’s face. “And Calvin, there are lots of ways to go that are ugly.” He paused, smiling down at Bates. “So you can see we’re anxious to talk with the doc and this Redhawk and see if we can clear up a few details.”

  Roy felt the first edge of rage flickering at the edges of his eyes. “Yeah, definitely need to talk to the doc. So who is he, Cal? What’s his name? How do I get ahold of him for a little chat?”

  “I leave messages with his exchange. I only called him a couple of times. The other times, he called me when he wanted something.”

  “So what’s the number at the exchange?’

  “It’s in the address book next to the phone there.” He pointed over toward the far wall. “The brown metal one.”

  Roy looked over at Jace, who was still humming to himself and swinging the dead rottweiler back and forth on the hoist.

  “Jace, keep an eye on Calvin here. Okay, Jace?”

  “Umm-hmmm, okay, Roy,” he hummed.

  Roy threaded his way between the prostrate male rottweiler and Bates to the rough-sawn plywood desk, which was strewn with gun catalogs and advertising pamphlets singing the praises of various firearms, reloading equipment, and sighting devices. He found an old dime-store metal address book, the kind that flipped open to different letters by moving the slide up or down the side of the cover.

  “What name, Calvin?”

  “Sorensen, Dr. Michael Sorensen.”

  Roy slid the key up to the S and pushed the metal tab at the bottom of the tin cover. “Just a phone number. No fucking address, Calvin.”

  “I told you—I call and leave messages, or he calls me.”

  Roy stepped back to where Bates leaned against the workbench. “That’s talking back, Calvin. Talking back is rude.” Roy’s backhand snapped Bates’s head back. Blood leaked from his nose.

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “A gynecologist.”

  “Hear that, Jace, a pussy doctor. Old Doc Sorensen is a pussy doctor.”

  Jason exposed his teeth, nodding at Roy.

  “What town’s he live in?”

  “Pasadena, I think.”

  “You think? Why do you think Pasadena, Calvin?”

  “He mentioned it a couple of times. Complained about all the gooks moving in.” Bates grinned up at Roy, trying for Aryan brotherhood.

  “Now that’s helpful, Calvin.” Roy stood looking down at the pathetic grin. The blood had dried on Bates’s upper lip and had crusted around his nostrils. Another bag of pain. “Well, we got to be going, Cal—vin. We’ve got a busy social calendar.”

  Bates slowly nodded his head, sighing with relief.

  Roy slipped the Glock quickly from his belt and pointed it down at Bates.

  “No. No. Please, no.” Bates held up his hands, as if somehow he could ward off death.

  “‘No. No. Please, no.’” The red creature’s mouth mocked Bates’s words in eerie imitation.

  “Put down your fucking hands, Cal—vin. Can’t you take a joke?” Roy flashed a smile. “You know, I’ll bet you’re sorry to see us go, Cal—vin.”

  Bates nodded his head and shifted his eyes from the Glock to peer up at Roy. Here it was again, the pathetic face of hope. “But you know how it is, Calvin. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  The first shot caught Bates in the chest, knocking him backward onto the floor, cheating Roy of the look of surprise. He stepped quickly forward and looked down. Bates’s eyes had already begun to lose their luster.

  “Shit!”

  He stepped back to avoid the splatter and put a second shot into the dead man’s head. He looked up at his brother, really smiling now. “‘When a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.’ Words to live by, brother Jason.” Roy took the .458 Magnum from the cradle and slipped the bolt into the pocket of his jacket.

  “Never know when we might have to kill a car. Right?”

  Jason scrabbled forward and began tugging at the drugged Nero.

  “We don’t have time, Jace. Here, take the gun.”

  Roy handed the Glock over to his brother.

  “You get three shots, just three. And don’t get blood all over yourself. After that, you can start a little fire. Then we gotta talk to Redhawk and the doctor.”

  9

  Frank stopped in the sandy wash. A jumble of car-size boulders lay across the canyon, blocking their path. He could hear Linda’s even breathing in the morning stillness.

  “We’re almost there. Once we’ve climbed the rocks, the canyon opens up into a small meadow. It’s the surprise in Surprise Canyon.”

  “How do we get up?” Linda’s voice was tight.

  “We work our way up the left side.”

  Frank gestured with his arm. Boulders spilled out of the dark mouth of the canyon. They seemed caught in a frozen avalanche, waiting to tumble out of the shadows and come crashing down the narrow wash to the valley floor. “We cross over to the middle. There’s a gap there. Then we’re home free.”

  She turned and walked back about twenty feet and looked up at the rocks. Frank tried to sound reassuring. “It looks nasty from here, but it’s not so bad if you know the way.” He casually waved her on and headed for a house-size rock tucked up against the canyon wall. Her footsteps crunched in the sand behind him.

  “We do
n’t climb this one.” Frank slipped through a wedge-shaped gap between the rock and the canyon wall and scrambled from rock to rock, pausing now and then to observe Linda’s progress. She had hardly drawn a short breath coming up the steep climb from the valley floor, but now she seemed tentative. “How ya doin’?” he asked.

  She stepped across a narrow crevice, teetering awkwardly before regaining her balance. “Okay, but I’m not used to hiking around in the dark.”

  They climbed up an uneven stairway of huge boulders that were sharp-edged and angular, then emerged on the flattened surface of a two-story basaltic dome. Frank felt momentarily relieved. She’d made it this far, but the tough part lay ahead. The traverse across the rocks would require a jump of four or five feet between the tops of two upright monoliths. Frank and Linda stood near the edge of the drop.

  They seemed to be standing on silvery sheets suspended in the soft light. Frank carefully scanned the other side. Linda peered into the void between the rocks. The gap dropped away into the bottomlessness of pitch-dark. The top of the far rock appeared to be floating above the dark of the canyon, its surface softened by deceptive undulations interspersed with patches of narrow shadow.

  “We take a little jump—from here to over there.” His attempt at reassurance sounded hollow. It was no more than five feet. He had done it many times, but now, in the darkness of false dawn, the other side seemed far away, the blackness of the pit palpable.

  Linda continued to stare down into the darkness. “How far is it to the other side?”

  “Four, maybe five feet, and where we are is quite a bit higher than the other side. That makes it easier.” Silence. “Jumping downhill.” He knew that if she thought about it too long, she’d lose her nerve, work up some real fear. It wasn’t really that far. He hoped it was a matter of just doing it.

  “Watch when I jump. I’m going to land on that flat spot right there.” He pointed toward the other rock. “Take a small run; then give it your best. You’ll clear it with no problem.”