“Look,” Ponytail went on, “what we want here is some information about the guy you took up in the mountains for bighorn sheep about a week ago.”
The pale one picked it up. They were a team. “We want to know all about the good Dr. Sorensen.” He spoke distinctly, placing the words in the room one at a time. “Little things, like what he looks like. What kind of a car he drove? In fact, everything he said and did. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it, Ed—die?” They waited, the sound of the trucks on 395 rumbling in the stillness. “What’s the matter, Eddie, cat got your tongue?” He regarded Frank with detached contempt. “Come to think of it, Eddie fits a little brown fella like you. Come to think of it, you definitely look like an Ed—die. Whaddya think, Hickey?”
Ponytail nodded. “Yup, a little old Eddie.”
It was almost rehearsed, this pas de deux, a dance of intimidation. Frank wasn’t sure where it was leading, but he had a hunch it had a grim ending.
“Yeah, I know the guy you mean, the one you’re looking for, only he called himself Smith, a big blond guy. Bates said to call him Smith.”
Roy gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, that Bates, too clever for his own good. So, what was he driving?”
“I picked him up at the airport in Trona.”
“Yeah, so then what?”
“Then I took him up the mountain, and he killed a bighorn sheep.”
“Did he do a lot of hunting, Eddie? Did he say anything about hunting up there before with another guide?”
Frank knew he had to handle this carefully. His life probably depended on it. When they found out what they needed, he wouldn’t be around for another haircut.
“Yeah, he said something about it. Why you want to know?”
Hickey reached out and slapped Frank again, but this time Frank saw it coming and turned his head with the blow.
“We ask the questions. You give the answers. Simple.”
Frank measured out his answer, watching the one he was sure was Roy Miller. The man was moving easily about the small room, examining Eddie’s things, checking everything out. Frank’s innards roiled. There could be stuff that would give him away. He glanced at the shelf running above the header dividing the kitchen from the living room/bedroom. There were some old postcards, a calendar with a partially clad Indian maid lying on some furs, and a photo of three figures in a homemade frame. He couldn’t make it out, but it had to be of Eddie. There was an older couple in traditional dress, and the one in the middle had to be Eddie. He needed to get Miller’s attention before he looked up from the taxidermists’ catalog.
“So you stuff animals, that right, Redhawk?” He thumbed through the catalog.
“He said his last guide was a cretin.”
Miller’s eyes narrowed. “What’d you say?”
“Said he was so dumb, he couldn’t find his boots.” Frank paused, looking somewhat puzzled. “He thought that was really funny.”
The pale face went blank, eyes fixed on Frank.
Frank looked over at Hickey. “Laughed about it. Said he couldn’t find his boots, couldn’t find his dick with both hands.” He looked over at Miller and back to Hickey, his face full of puzzlement. “He told me I needed to be an improvement. He was a strange dude, man.”
Roy Miller’s pale eyes seemed to emit a blue light.
Frank held Miller’s gaze, his heart pounding. “You want to talk to him so bad, stick around. I’m supposed to meet him up in the mountains around five o’clock this afternoon.” He looked over at Hickey. “Going to bring out the ram’s head. We had to leave it in an abandoned mine when the law showed up.”
“You’re meeting Sorensen today?” The sandy voice was tight and controlled.
“That’s it, man. We’re going back to get it, the bighorn head.”
A slow smile creased Roy Miller’s thin mouth, pale lips lifting away from the red gums. “What about that, Hickey? We’re going to have a face-to-face meet with the good doctor sooner than we thought. See if he can find his dick with both hands.”
“Bet he can’t.” Ponytail grinned.
A popping sound came from the other side of the screen door. “There’s a cat out here,” someone said.
Miller shook his head in disgust. “I told you to wait in the van.”
“There’s a cat out here.”
“Okay, there’s a cat out there.”
“I can’t catch ’im.”
Roy nodded at Hickey. “Shit, go on out and keep him occupied.” Hickey blinked thoughtfully, his head wreathed in a cloud of pot smoke. Moving with great deliberation, he got to his feet and pushed out the screen door past a short redheaded man with a thick torso and tiny, startled bright blue eyes.
“Okay, Redhawk. You’re going to take me and my friends here to your meeting with the good doctor up in the mountains. Go on a little hike. Have a picnic. How’s that sound, my man?” Roy’s ghastly smile reflected genuine pleasure.
22
Frank kept thinking about the gun under his seat. Could he get to it? Would there be an opportunity? Should he get to it? He glanced up at the rearview mirror. The tan van was still there. The sun reflecting off the windshield made it impossible for him to make out Hickey or the other Miller, the one short a few cards, but he knew they were there riding along in the van like a couple of normal psychopaths. With Roy Miller as his faithful copilot, it wasn’t likely he’d have the opportunity to get to the .45. Maybe if they stopped for gas, but he didn’t need gas. Maybe if Miller needed to take a leak, had some sort of reason to leave him alone in the truck for a moment.
“Hey, man, how about we stop for some beer in Lone Pine?” Frank gave Miller a hopeful look.
Miller looked over and shook his head. “In all this heat, beer dries you out. That’s not being a smart guide, Eddie, drying folks out in the desert.” He gave Frank what passed for a familiar smile. “I’m gonna have to cut into your business here, Redhawk, take people up into the mountains for a real adventure. We could call it White Man’s World. You know, stuff for rich white folks led by a really white man.”
Frank looked away from the pale face.
“Hey there, my little brown friend, I like being white, really white.” Roy nodded in affirmation. “Maybe I’m ahead of my time. You know what I mean, one of the first, the early ones. Maybe white genes will spread, become dominant. You know about genetics, Eddie?”
“Naw, not much. I mean there’s bloodlines in horses and cattle and stuff, but that’s about it.” He had to be careful to hit it about right, know the stuff Eddie’d know—not too little, not too much.
“Well, there’s what’s called genetic dominance, see. Some things we inherit always show up, like brown eyes. See, brown eyes are dominant. But it’s not that simple. Brown eyes can make blue eyes, but blue eyes always make blue eyes. Blue eyes are pure. Now think about this, Eddie.” His smile suggested they were fellow conspirators. “What if being white, really white like me, was dominant? No mixed-up stuff, only pure. After awhile, there’d just be white guys, right?”
Frank looked at Miller and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.” There was something a bit haywire in Roy’s logic, to say nothing of his understanding of genetics, but he didn’t think now was a good time to straighten him out. Say, Oh, by the way, Roy, you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. For a moment, he tried to imagine a world full of pale white psychopaths. Not a pretty picture, especially if you tended to be brown and reasonably sane.
“Come on, Eddie, let’s show a little more enthusiasm here. We’d have white Indians.” Roy paused. “Now there’s a thought, white red men. Sorta like the way Indians described niggers, black white men.” He exposed his red gums. “There’d be lotsa interesting things, white spics, even white niggers. Hell, I’ve seen redheaded niggers. It could happen, Eddie. You’d have to change your guide name to Whitehawk.” Air escaped rhythmically from his throat in a silent laugh. “Say I met a really fine white woman, white like me, and our kids were just li
ke us, pure and white. A beginning, right?”
“I’ve never seen anything like you, man.” It was out before he thought about it. It had been a special curse, his thoughts rushing out of his mouth “like a fart from an old man’s ass,” as his da used to say. He looked over at Miller’s suddenly alert face. “No offense meant.”
Roy looked at Frank, his pale face intent, curious, and oddly lifeless in the midday light. Then he turned away, fixing his eyes on the highway. “Explaining this stuff to you is a waste of time, Eddie. Somehow I don’t think we’re on the same page, you know what I mean?” He gave a slight smile, which seemed to suggest that Frank was a man without a future.
“Hey, whatever, man. So how about we stop for Cokes?” Miller shook his head in disbelief. “Forget it, Eddie. We gas up and refill the canteens in Olancha. That’s it.” His mood seemed to darken, as if he’d found their conversation tiring. It was exhausting for Frank, having to watch every word. Being Eddie Laguna required all his concentration. The fewer words that passed between them, the less likely Miller would become suspicious. Another tiny deviation from Eddie’s persona could give him away. He knew this much: Miller possessed an agile mind. He had a probing energy, malevolent and alert. Frank wished he could stretch out on the sand by his pond and let the cottonwoods whisper him to sleep. The steady rhythm of the engine and road noise temporarily cocooned him from his surroundings, shut out the evil next to him, the person directing his path. He hummed tunelessly. It seemed familiar to him from long ago, something Susan Funmaker’s mother had taught to him. Something about ravens.
They rode wrapped in their own thoughts. God only knew what went on in the dark places of Miller’s mind. Frank’s thoughts tugged away at the threads and knots of the mess in which he had become entangled. He had gambled a lie against time. He had another hour and half’s driving time and three-plus hours up to the mine, maybe more if he used the terrain to his advantage. Time was his ally. His mind was calm now, as if he were watching himself. He considered the possibilities. If Eddie had turned himself in, then Fish and Game would be alerted. If he slipped up and told them about Frank knowing he was the poacher, Meecham would be very angry at Frank for not reporting the information. But they wouldn’t be looking for Smith the poacher in Ballarat until Sunday morning, tomorrow, and tomorrow would too late.
On the other hand, Frank knew they might be looking for him, wondering why he’d missed his walk and talk, but after the caboose, where would they look? It would be a search by phone, and he’d left his personal cell phone in the caboose. He’d planned to check into work this afternoon. Then there was Linda. After five o’clock, Linda would be annoyed, then angry, then worried. She would look for him, too. There would be an angry Linda and an angry and disappointed Dave Meecham, but would they raise the alarm, especially on a weekend? Not right away, probably not in time, but there was always the possibility Linda would contact Meecham, or vice versa. Both Linda and Meecham were persistent and thorough, people who paid attention to things, remembered the details. Both of them knew how much he wanted to catch the sheep killer, and Linda knew about Eddie. He could only hope they’d think about Surprise Canyon, but he couldn’t count on it. And by his own reckoning, he had maybe five hours to continue being Eddie Laguna before the Millers dispensed with his services.
The .45 under the seat—he’d have to find a way to get his hands on it before they started for the mine. And then there was maybe an ace in the hole. If their little hunting party made it all the way to the Silver Queen, Sorensen’s precious Weatherby Magnum would be somewhere in the mine, maybe with a few rounds in the magazine. If he could come across it first, the odds might even out a bit. Of one thing he was becoming increasingly sure: Roy Miller wasn’t intending to let Eddie Laguna make a round-trip.
Frank pulled the truck off the dirt track, leaving just barely enough room for another vehicle. The van pulled up behind him, effectively blocking the road. Roy craned his head around, frowning back at Hickey and the other Miller. Roy opened the door and got out, leaving the passenger door standing wide open. Frank waited for him to shut the door and walk back to the van, which would give him a chance to reach the .45, but Roy just stood there. Frank let his hand drop toward the floor of the truck.
“Pull off the fucking road.” Miller waved at the van’s driver, his voice taut with impatience. He eased himself back into the truck. “Pull off up there.” He eyed Frank, who fought to stay calm. “Jesus, wake the fuck up. Pull farther up.” He pointed to a narrow clearing to the right of the track, where the berm had been broken down by ATVs and four-wheel vehicles using the narrow arroyo as a shortcut to the ghost town of Ballarat.
Frank eased the truck off the track and onto the floor of the sandy wash. “Hope we don’t get stuck in the sand.”
“Don’t worry about it, ace.” Again, Roy opened the door, standing half in and half out. Frank dropped his hand once more. He’d have to retrieve the .45 and draw the slide before Miller was on him. Miscalculating meant dying. Frank watched as Roy stood with one arm resting on the open door, looking around. Roy waved Hickey and the other one to come on. Frank watched as they trudged up the wash carrying their gear. Hickey bore a small pack, probably full of candy bars, which seemed to be his principal form of sustenance. The redheaded Miller carried the canteens and a heavy barreled rifle. He noticed that Hickey had what looked like a Glock thrust into the front of his pants.
As they drew nearer, he gave the rifle a careful inspection. It was a .458 Winchester Magnum equipped with a scope. Scoping very heavy caliber guns violated standard practice. Guns like the .458 and the .600 Nitro Express were meant for killing elephants, lions, tigers, so what the hell were they doing with a scoped shoulder cannon? It was hard to find a moving target in a scope, especially a charging target running at you at forty miles an hour, so hunters of very big game had to stand their ground, use iron sights and get off their shot before what they were shooting at found them; at least that was the Hemingway tradition. No time for fooling around trying to locate in the scope what you had to hit. Roy Miller didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. His weapon consisted of the seemingly absolute control he exercised over the soft-brain and the psychopath ever trailing in his wake.
Frank sized up their expedition. Three one-quart canteens and Frank’s half-gallon one—not enough water. That could work in his favor. Tired and thirsty crooks lacked efficiency, weren’t up to snuff, or up to snuffing folks out. At least he hoped so. Hickey handed Roy a sort of kepi, like a legionnaire’s hat with a neckerchief. Despite the dread sitting in the pit of his stomach, Frank smiled inwardly. He found his band of adventurers more than a bit strange: an albino in a legionnaire’s cap, a woolly red troll armed with a shoulder cannon, and a dreamy-eyed sociopath with a gray ponytail; and then there was him, Frank Flynn, a one-man tribe, the last of the Meximicks.
The climb up the canyon lifted Frank’s spirit, each breath, each step a tonic. He felt good. His companions had not fared so well in the heat of the afternoon. The hike sapped their strength, except for the redheaded creature. He didn’t seem fatigued. His short legs worked like tireless pistons, churning through the sandy bottom of the wash, hopping with agility from rock to rock. Now and again, he would stop and swivel his head from side to side, making clicking sounds, then look furtively at Roy, as if waiting for a reproof.
Hickey seemed to suffer the most. Despite being thin and wiry, he stopped frequently, gasping to catch his breath. Clearly, he didn’t do much in the way of hiking, or much of anything else physical. Frank enjoyed his discomfort. Hickey had been the first to run out of water. Less than halfway there, he had emptied his canteen. Then he had stumbled over to Frank, relieved him of his water, drank deeply, and walked away, tossing Frank’s canteen on the ground. It was okay, though. Frank had drunk more than half the water, stocking up, anticipating that his water would be the property of whoever ran out first. So he popped a smooth round pebble in his mouth and led them up the rock slide to
the jump where the huge granite monolith had split in two. He was pretty sure the red one’s legs were too short to propel him across the gap. He’d soon see.
The four of them stood on the flat top of the monolith, the reflected glare of the afternoon sun causing them to squint behind their sunglasses. Roy Miller and Hickey wore dark Ray•Bans, stylish thugs. Frank’s glasses were lightly tinted, enough to block out the ultraviolet rays, but not enough to darken the landscape. He didn’t like the distortion of the light. It made him feel somehow out of touch with his surroundings, especially in the desert.
Roy surveyed their situation again, looking over the chasm, then at each of them, his gaze lingering on the redhead’s truncated legs. “You know, Eddie, I don’t think Jason here can make the jump. Can you make the jump, Jace?”
Jason nodded slowly up and down in silent assent.
“Yeah, right.” Roy looked at the gap between the rocks, thinking about it. “I don’t think so.” He turned his bleached face toward Frank. “See, he’s not squeaking or clicking, which means that his attention is focused. You know what I think focused his attention?” Roy pointed at the gap between the rocks. “That.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad. I’ll go first, show you the way.”
“No, I don’t think I want you on that rock over there and us way over here, Eddie. It’d make me feel deserted like. Nope, what I think is that we’ll go back and go up the other way, the long way, the route you didn’t want to use. You know why? Because this isn’t like you described it, Eddie. Why is that? Why isn’t it like you said it’d be, ‘a piece of cake’?”
Shadow of the Raven Page 22
