Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  Then she heard the sound of plastic rings scraping on the iron rod that supported the privacy curtain. “So there you are, Ms. Reyes. How ya doin’?” Roy pushed the curtain aside with one hand. In his other hand, he held a large automatic pistol. “Long time no see. Didn’t expect to see you come up from the floor. Now I know why the light switch doesn’t work. You’re full of surprises.” The pale forehead creased into a frown. “Say, where’s that big old double-barrel shotgun? Back under the counter at the bar, huh?” He nodded to himself. “Didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances, though. Better safe than sorry.” He slipped the gun inside his jacket and smiled. “Guess we can have that interview now. Get to know each other. I’m kind of an interesting guy once you get to know me.”

  Someone was groaning. The sound vibrated in her ears and throat. Then she realized it was coming from her.

  “Back among the living, are we? Had to whack you a couple a times to quiet you down.”

  From where she lay trussed up on the floor, she could see the mountains sliding by the driver’s window of the van. They had to be heading north on 395. She slid forward as he hit the brakes and rolled against the wall on the turn.

  “Ranger Frank lives somewhere up here along Sage Flat Road, right, Linda? Back on a first-name basis, if that’s okay with you.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “So where do I turn?”

  “Find it yourself, Roy. Okay if I call you Roy?”

  He shook his head. She felt the van slow and pull to a stop. Miller turned, removed his sunglasses, and slowly turned his head from side to side in disbelief. She recognized the pale face, but the lusterless brown hair gave him the appearance of an animated mannequin. He continued to move his head slowly back and forth, weary with the burden of inner truth.

  “Linda, you think you can afford to be a smart-mouth without the shotgun? You think you still have the drop on ol’ Roy?” His pale eyes were flat and lightless. She looked away. He got out of the truck and opened the rear doors. “There you go. Nice bright day.” He stepped into the rear of the van and turned to close the doors. “On the other hand, we don’t want to be distracted, especially you. You want to pay close attention, get in touch with reality.”

  He stepped over her and slid out a seat from the workbench attached to a metal arm that locked it in place. “The thing for you to think about is how soon you’ll decide to cooperate. He pulled out a tool drawer and took out a pair of pruning shears. “See, if I have to do a little gardening, prune off a toe here, a finger there …” He let his voice trail off.

  She tried to control the fear, but it enveloped her like a thick blanket.

  His voice droned on. “Here a nip, there a nipple. So fucking noisy, all that screaming and hollering. Then after all that, the next thing you know, you’ll be begging me to draw a map to his place. And messy. Mess up my clean truck, my best coveralls. You like the logo?” He turned around, revealing the name Muriel’s Eyes on the Skies. “Pretty catchy, huh?” He drummed his fingers on the workbench. “For a reporter girl, you’re not too bright.” He reached down and rolled her over on her stomach. Grabbing one thumb, he twisted it up away from her hand. “Now here’s a twig that needs to come off.”

  “It’s the dirt road next to the abandoned railroad tracks.” The voice she heard coming from herself sounded distant, as if she were only bearing witness to what was happening.

  33

  Frank dreaded the opening day of trout season, people marching up and down the creek, leaving behind empty Styrofoam worm containers and beer cans winking in the water. The wind had been whipping down the back wall of the Sierras in fits and gusts since daybreak. He glanced up at the tops of the cottonwoods bouncing about in all directions in a prolonged sigh, as if gasping for air. The high water in Sage Creek would make fishing next to impossible, sending the trout into deep recesses and turning the creek into a torrent of snags, but the fisherfolk would come anyway, pouring up from Southern California, five hours to the south, rods in their hands, hope in their hearts.

  For now, Frank had Sage Creek almost to himself. He pulled the truck into the campground. One motor home stood there, the people tucked safely inside away from the wind. They were missing out. The sky was blue enamel, the air so clear that you could see the pine-serrated edges on the distant peaks. Soon the campground would be full, and there would be a campground host seven days a week until the season closed in September.

  The lidded garbage cans by the faucet were full from the weekend, brimming over with trash. A couple of green garbage bags lay propped against the metal cans, their contents spilling onto the ground, scattering bits of paper and plastic into the wind. He shrugged. Squirrels and ravens had torn into the sacks. Ever the opportunists, ravens had followed Paiute hunting parties into the desert for leftovers. Now they followed campers. As much as Frank found the clever thieves fascinating, he rarely fed them, never out in the desert or near his place. They had long memories for places and people. Once he’d shared a crust from a sandwich with a raven hanging around a campground on Taboose Creek. It followed him around the rest of the day, croaking for more.

  He lifted the broken trash bags into the back of his pickup and gathered up as much of the trash as he could chase down, planning to take it to the dump on his next trip to town. Since Miller’s phone call, trips to the campground had become a regular part of his daily routine. He carefully avoided driving directly home and stuck to using the trail from the campground that followed the creek back to the caboose. It would be difficult to follow someone up the long climb from the desert floor without being seen, but it would be easy to stay at a distance and follow someone’s progress with binoculars. Not so easy to follow him along the creek bed cut deep into the alluvial debris.

  Frank was sure Miller would seek him out. The flash of Miller’s white face staring up at him from the broken body of his brother was indelibly etched in his mind. There was no point in being foolhardy. Thinking about Miller made him involuntarily brush his hand against the butt of the .45 resting in the holster clipped to his belt. A loose T-shirt could conceal the whole thing if someone wasn’t looking for it.

  Frank chased down a couple more paper plates and some rib bones left over from a barbecue and tossed them in the bed of the truck. The bones were immediately seized upon by a cluster of feuding ravens. They normally traveled in mated pairs. Flocking up was unusual, but it was becoming more common as open food sources became available. He set off down the trail, the sounds of the quarreling birds drowned out in the roar of the swollen creek.

  Roy left Linda gagged and alone in the back of the van while he went to check up on Frank’s caboose.

  “Got to do a little recon. You know, find the lay of the land.” He pointed his finger at her pistol-fashion, grinning at his little joke. “See how things stand,” he added, glancing down at his crotch with a look of mock surprise. “Wouldn’t want to walk into a problem and ruin our plans, would we?” His mouth gaped open in a silent laugh. “Don’t go getting your hopes up now. Best way to get through all this stress is to go with the flow.”

  He looked down at Linda, who was lying on her side, hands and feet tied together behind her back. She was glad she did yoga. Maybe her muscles wouldn’t cramp. “Not to worry.” He patted her on the rump and closed one pale eye with mechanical slowness. “I’ll be back.” He paused, his face serious. “Remember the way my brother did that ‘I’ll be back’? Just like old Swartznigger. You remember Jace, right?” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “Naw, maybe not.” He reached down behind the seat and lifted up a military-issue M1 carbine. The short clip protruded from the forearm. “See ya.” He waved casually before shutting the door and disappearing from sight.

  Linda’s mind churned. Where would Frank be? If he was at home, he might be sitting up in the cupola, looking out over the valley, “woolgathering,” as he called it. Then he’d see Miller coming. But it was a weekday, and most likely he was out, gone on some BLM business, or visiting some
special place, checking out the campgrounds before opening day.

  He hadn’t talked much about his job lately. He’d mentioned that Dave Meecham had been particularly tickled that Frank and the BLM had been vindicated, but Frank hadn’t seemed so pleased about it. When she had reminded him that Bob Dewey and the Inyo Sheriff’s Department treated him with new respect, he’d shrugged, remarking, “A day late and a dollar short.” After the call from Roy Miller, he withdrew, pulling into himself, waiting for events to unfold, so she’d waited with him, pushing thoughts of Miller aside, burying herself in work.

  But now she had to think about him. Giving up was the first step toward despair and death. She needed to find a way to buy time. The pat on her bottom had been the first sign that Miller noticed her as a woman, that he might be distracted. She had shuddered at his touch, and now she shuddered at the thought of him touching her again. The sound of the driver’s door opening made her jump. She rolled back over where she could see.

  He shook his head. “All that wiggling around won’t help, just a waste of energy. Save it for the sing-along.” He chatted away, being affable. “Nobody home at the red caboose. That gives us time to plan our surprise. Sounds pretty good, huh? I bet you give the little brown feller surprises all the time.”

  Roy pulled the repair van up around behind an outcropping of rock some fifty yards beyond the caboose, where it would be concealed from someone approaching along the dirt road. After untying her ankles, he removed the gag. “Now don’t start with the screaming and hollering, or I’ll have to gag you again. Besides, who’s to hear?” His smile conveyed an obscene intimacy.

  “Now we’re going to walk on back to that caboose. You know, I thought it was bullshit, living in a caboose, but it looks okay. Think I might give it a try. Don’t think Ranger Frank will be needing it much longer.” He frowned in thought. “What do you think? Roy’s TV Repair. Call the loose caboose.”

  She looked away.

  “Got nothing to say? Good. Saves time. Let’s move along now.” She walked ahead of him. He carried a red plastic gas can. When they reached the caboose, Linda made a dash for the creek, knowing that it was probably futile, but some chance was better than no chance at all, so she ran. He caught her before she reached the narrowing of the trail through the rocks, clubbing her across the shoulders with his fist.

  “Now you’ve pissed me off, Ms. Reyes.” He kicked her in the stomach. “That was dumb.” He jerked her to her feet and pushed her ahead of him. She stumbled forward, gasping for air. “Do that again and you won’t have any toes to run on.” He shoved her from behind. “Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.” She seemed to be outside herself again, watching as in a dream, one Linda calmly observing the plight of the other.

  He thrust her on the ground. “Don’t fucking move.” She watched as he unsnapped the bungee cord holding the folding chairs to the rear of the platform.

  “Here you go, a place to sit.” He gestured politely with an empty hand as a waiter might usher someone to a seat.

  He’d placed the chair away from the caboose, where it wouldn’t be immediately visible from the dirt track. She felt his sinewy hands tying her ankles to the metal legs. He pulled the cord up and tied her arms down so that she was as one with the light aluminum frame. “Pretty good.” He exposed the enamel of his teeth and the red gums. “You look like someone waiting for the man to throw the switch.”

  He squatted next to her. “So help me out with something here. You think knowing someone is going to die is worse than watching them die? Having time to worry about it?” He watched her face, waiting for it to register. “Well, I can tell you firsthand. Watching gets the nod.” He nodded his own head, affirming his observation. “Yup, old Mitch and Shawna got to watch each other go out in a burst of flame. Sharing a final family moment.”

  “Go to hell, Miller.” She glared at him, summoning her strength. “If you’re waiting for me to break down, maybe I will, but not because of your sick talk.”

  He rose, the movement quick and fluid, then stood looking down at her, his face registering curiosity. “More balls than most, I’ll say that for you.” His face remained solemn. “Just a figure of speech, not being rude.” The sandy voice was barely audible.

  His pale blue eyes traveled over her body, as if seeing it for the first time, and came to rest on her face.

  She met his gaze. “Why’re you doing this? What for?”

  His mouth hardened. “People like you wouldn’t know.” He waved his arm in a slow arc. “See all this? Looks pretty, doesn’t it, all the plants and animals and nature. Springtime, right? But you know what it really is?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s eating itself. It feeds, the big stuff on the small stuff, the strong on the weak. Man, it just eats. You remember that fat ass that went all to Jell-O in the bar, the one called himself Art Schopenhauer?”

  She nodded, unable to take her eyes away from him.

  “The real one, the philosopher, he had it right. The only thing that’s real is the ‘will,’ and the ‘will’ consumes without thought, just eats. There’s God for you”—he waved his arm around—“out there eating. Fuck it, lady. I’m one of the eaters.”

  He grabbed her hair, jerking her head back, and stuffed a rag in her mouth and then wrapped her mouth tightly with nylon cord. “Can’t stand the squawking.” He lifted the gas can and poured it on her clothes, being careful not to splash it on her face. “He shouldn’t have killed Jace; you know it. Look what a mess he got you in.”

  She could hear the sandy voice coming from behind her. “Now we’ll ‘set a spell,’ as these hicks like to say, and wait for ol’ Francisco, and then we’ll see if he can keep his cool. You know, I’m guessing he’ll come apart.” His words, little bits of distinct sound, disappeared in the wind.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Linda saw a raven glide across the sky from the direction of Sage Creek.

  Frank walked below the cutbank, using it as a shelter from the wind. It always filled him with a sense of wonder, the way the wind would gust about, leaving little pockets of stillness, soft back eddies peeling away from whistling blasts strong enough to topple trees. He could almost visualize it swirling about like the currents in a river.

  A pair of ravens followed him from the campground, their hoarse cries for food the only sound besides the rushing of wind and water. They’d seen him toss the rib bones in the back of his truck, and now they considered him a food source. Well, they were going to have a long wait. He planned on having lunch alone.

  Frank paused before crossing the creek, his glance drawn to the bright green of the leaves tossing against the deep blue of the sky. One of the ravens winged across the ragged opening in the trees, croaking into the wind. Frank felt suddenly anxious to get home. The ravens had followed the course of his walk, flying ahead, then taking off at his approach and gliding down the streambed to wait for him, claws clasping on the next outcropping or dead snag, their eyes glittering, feathers ruffled in the wind. He watched them sail ahead, hovering in the wind, as he made his way along the creek. Occasionally a gust would blow them downstream. Then they would dip down, slipping through the air to the next perch.

  As Frank approached the path to the caboose, the forward bird lifted above the cottonwoods, catching the sun, then folded one wing and dipped down, giving a sharp call of alarm. Its mate circled above, echoing its companion. They came to rest on the boulders that guarded the trail from the pool to the caboose and stalked about in obvious agitation, emitting hoarse cries. Frank stopped and held his breath, his senses heightened by their calls of alarm.

  He moved to the narrow path between the rocks and eased forward until he could view the clearing behind the caboose. Linda sat stiffly in one of the cheap folding patio chairs, her back to the trail. Roy Miller sprawled next to her, long legs stretched out in front of him, the M1 carbine resting across his lap. Despite the brown hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head, there
was no mistaking Miller’s casual menace. The chairs had been placed in such a way that they would be unseen by someone approaching from the dirt track until they were almost at the caboose. If he’d been coming that way, he wouldn’t have seen them until it was too late.

  Frank watched Roy’s head move about in conversation, his words carried away by the wind. He strained to catch what Roy was saying, but he could only make out scattered sound. The sight of the red plastic gas can lying on its side a few feet from Linda flooded his senses with a rush of adrenaline. He wanted to run forward and smash Miller, pummel him with his hands. He breathed deeply, concentrating on regaining rational thought. He estimated the distance at close to two hundred feet. Too far for a sure shot and too far to run without being caught in the open. He needed to be closer. The ground was rough but bare. Rounded pebbles near the stream trailed away into sand and broken bits of rock. His boots would make crunching sounds in the gravel. He leaned against one of the rocks and pulled them off. If he walked carefully, waiting for the wind to cover the sound of his movements, he could get close enough to make sure his first shot would count.

  He stood in his stocking feet, feeling the ground and the damp coolness of the gravel coming through his socks. Drawing in his breath, he stepped away from the rocks and moved toward the sitting figures. It felt as if he were moving in a dream, colors vivid and intense, sounds distinct and separate, and the coppery taste of fear in his mouth.

  A sudden gust of wind swept leaves and clouds of dust across the clearing, rocking Miller and Linda in their chairs and tumbling the gas container along the ground. Miller turned his head. For a terrible moment, Frank thought Miller was going to go after the gas can, but he watched the can as it skidded across the ground and lodged against the caboose. Instead, he turned his head back toward Linda, the knot of brown hair bobbing in time to words Frank couldn’t hear. The wind died away into silence, the leaves still. Frank stood motionless, the sun warm on his back and neck. He forced himself to look past Miller’s exposed back at the plastic can so that Miller wouldn’t feel his eyes painting patterns of alarm. Frank caught the murmur of his sandy voice, the deliberate rhythm of sounds, but not the words themselves. The treetops stirred again and Frank eased forward. He shifted his weight as a sharp rock dug into the bottom of his foot. The wind raced along the ground, whipping at his trousers. Miller’s hand shot up just in time to catch his hat from lifting away. Stay on his head, hat. Frank’s lips formed the unspoken words.