Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  The basement smelled of loamy earth, mildew, and burned coffee. The main room held an assortment of discarded furniture that, years ago, Hanley had supplied.

  No one was in the room.

  The scrape of the shovel moving through the dirt drifted down to him.

  Hanley moved along the walls, tapping, listening for any variation in the sound. Next he moved the larger pieces of furniture and the mattress, looking for a door that meant access to a subcellar.

  He was sweating profusely now, his heart banging like a bell clapper in his chest. He listened. The steady scraping went on.

  He turned back to the stairs, started up. He paused, stared curiously at the riser. Stepping back down, he moved along the staircase. The space beneath the stairs had been closed in with planks of scrap wood. At the narrow end, almost invisible, a door blended with the planks. Hanley dug his fingernails in a crack and pulled. The door opened.

  He bent over and poked his head in. The space was dark. He looked around the main room, saw a book of matches on the table, retrieved them, then went back to the opening. He lit one and held it inside. In the flickering glow of the match, depth was deceptive, but it was plain to see the space didn’t run the full length of the stairway. Another closed-off area stood under the high point of the stairwell.

  The match went out. Hanley bent down to enter the stairwell. He crab-walked until he felt another door. This one with a dead bolt, its key in the lock. He turned the key; the tumblers clanked softly. The door drifted open.

  The dark crowded around him. Hanley’s fingers fumbled out another match, struck it. The flame flared so bright he instinctively blinked, lowering his head. When it settled into a steady, soft glow, he looked up.

  Just inside the room and to the left, she lay on a small army cot. She still wore the white T-shirt and shorts he’d seen her in that morning when she’d galloped off on Prince. Her feet were bare.

  It took him a moment before he could gather enough spit in his mouth to speak.

  “Tobie,” he whispered.

  Her head lolled sluggishly and she moaned. “Hanley?”

  The match burned out.

  He fumbled with the matches, tore one off.

  The vise that clamped over his shoulder nearly paralyzed him. He cried out, sank to his knees.

  “Joe … it’s me, your gra—grandpa,” he managed to say through the pain.

  “What are you doing here?” Joe said, his tone hard.

  “I’ve come to—”

  He was cut off. “Did you bring anyone?”

  “‘Course not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s talk, son.”

  Hanley was being pulled back, out of the room, through the angled space. He toppled over, cringed as his foot caught sharply under him, scrambled back on his feet to continue troll-like to the door of the stairwell. He was pitched roughly out into the center of the room.

  Hanley stared up at the man towering over him. He was filthy with dirt, dust, and sweat. One hand was covered in a tattered, grimy bandage, black with dried blood. The brown T-shirt stuck to his skin at his waist with another spot of dark blood.

  “You were looking for her, weren’t you?” Eckker said, pushing him back down.

  “Damn right I was. Have you gone crazy? We had an agreement. I let you stay up here, you keep away from the Paxtons—especially that young one in there. Lord, boy, she’s just a baby.”

  “She’s mine. I’m not giving her up.”

  “Don’t be a fool. I never took you for a fool, Joe.”

  “I’m leaving this mountain. She’s coming with me.”

  “You can’t hide, son. Tobie’s sister knows you got Tobie.”

  “How’s she know?”

  “She says she saw you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I swear.

  His grandson seemed to ponder a moment, then, “It don’t matter. I’m gonna kill her. I’ll kill anybody who tries to stop me.”

  “What’s happened to your hand, boy?” Hanley asked.

  As Eckker looked down at the bloody bandage, Hanley reached inside his shirt, grabbed hold of the gun, and pulled it from his waistband. Eckker looked up. With a wounded growl the big man charged him, grabbing at the gun. Both men had a hand on it. The gun discharged.

  Hanley dropped to his knees. Blood saturated the faded plaid shirt. He struggled for air, clawing at the other man’s pant leg. A moment later he collapsed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Eckker carried the body up the stairs and out into the yard. The sky was overcast now. Patterns of cloud shadows darkened the mountains. The horse, tethered to the aspen, flared his nostrils and snorted.

  Eckker lowered the old man into the freshly dug hole. He lifted the shovel and began to toss dirt over the top of him. A sudden burst of excitement charged through his body, fueling his actions. He raced against time, knowing what was coming.

  Clumps of earth flew as first the odor, then the images, assaulted him. He gripped the shovel’s handle, his hands sliding down the shaft as he dropped to his knees, the seizure now fully upon him.

  ________

  Hanley opened his eyes, squinting upward into the gray afternoon light. He tasted fresh dirt, gagged. Searing pain, like a branding iron against his lungs, burned in his chest as he staggered to his feet, pushing dirt away. Sprawled inches from him was the unconscious form of his grandson. Hanley crawled from the shallow grave.

  He struggled to stay upright, his steps slow yet urgent as he crossed the yard to the horse. Sweat stung his eyes, blood soaked his clothes. Reaching the tree, he leaned against the rough bark, forcing himself to take shallow breaths. Through a haze of pain he stared at the bloody path behind him.

  Prince whinnied softly. With great effort Hanley retrieved the shotgun from the bushes and untied the tether. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he took hold of the saddle horn, and, after several agonizing attempts, managed to mount the jittery horse. Leaning forward, the shotgun across the front of the saddle, Hanley gently urged the horse on.

  ________

  Eckker fought his way back to consciousness. Disoriented, he looked around the yard, wondering what he’d been doing before the fit came over him. In front of him was the hole. He’d been digging. He had to get back to work.

  Sluggishly he rose to his knees, reached for the shovel. Thoughts of his grandfather flashed in his head. His grandfather? He’d been up here to the church. He’d been in the cellar—snooping. A gun.

  Eckker struggled to stand. He’d killed his grandfather and put him in the grave. Now the space was empty.

  He looked around, saw no sign of him. A trail of blood led him to the aspen tree where the horse had been tethered. Gone, both of them. Gone to warn the Paxtons.

  He cursed. Now he’d have to go after him.

  Tobie heard a key in a lock. A moment later, through she was unable to see anything, she felt another’s presence.

  A callused hand stroked her thigh. She jerked, pulled her legs in tightly.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Tobie—” a bottomless voice began.

  She said nothing.

  “Tobie…” As though he simply wanted to hear her name spoken aloud.

  She began to cry. Deep, hopeless sobs.

  The hand grazed a path down the front of her T-shirt, between her small breasts. She shuddered. Who was he? What did he want with her? Where was she?

  “We’ll leave soon,” he said.

  She heard the door close and the lock engage.

  ________

  They gathered in the gun room. Jake had selected a pump action .12-gauge shotgun. He stood at the desk pushing shells into the loading gate. For herself, Robbi decided on a lightweight .20-gauge single shot.

  Lois Paxton, refusing even to handle a gun, wrung her hands and paced. She stopped, looked solemnly at her daughter, then broke the long silence. “You saw this man take Tobie?”

  “Yes.” Robbi slid
a shell into the chamber. As though talking to herself, she added quietly, “All along it was really Tobie he wanted; the others were merely surrogates.” She turned and faced the French windows, staring out at the rapidly darkening sky. The gun made a sharp cracking sound as she snapped the barrel shut. “I couldn’t save Ronnie, but, dammit, I will save Tobie.”

  Robbi shivered. Through the windows of the sun porch she saw sheet lightning flash in the distance. A few minutes earlier, as she and Jake closed the windows in the porch against the gusty winds, everything around Robbi had suddenly gone black. At first she thought her blindness had returned. Then she realized she was not alone in her mind; the blackness dwelled in another place. She’d smelled earth and decay and coconut. Then Tobie’s fears had flooded her brain.

  Now, able to see clearly again, and Tobie no longer in her head, she said to Jake, “It was pitch black. She may have been blindfolded.”

  “Any sounds that might give a clue to her location?”

  “Nothing. It smelled of earth. It was cool. I’m positive it was underground.”

  Lightning flashed across the western sky. Thunder followed. Robbi stiffened, remembering the running nightmare. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. As the storm clouds increased, the sky darkened.

  Lois had gotten dressed and was now sitting rigid on an overstuffed floral-printed chair. She held a small throw pillow to her chest, picking at the fringe, her lap littered with a cottony fuzz.

  “I’m calling the police,” Roberta said.

  “No!” her mother cried out. “You heard what Hanley said. He’ll kill her. Listen to Hanley, he knows best.”

  “But Mom, Hanley may be dead.”

  “It hasn’t been two hours yet,” Lois said, her eyes darting from Robbi to Jake. “Give him the two hours.”

  Robbi looked at Jake. He nodded.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Eckker stood in the shadows of the stable. There had been no sign of his grandfather or the horse on his trip down the mountain.

  He looked through the windows of a room at the back of the large house and watched the woman he had to kill.

  A tall, good-looking man moved to the window and stood gazing out. Eckker’s gut twisted. There was the one responsible for taking pieces of his body. Eckker rubbed the bandaged hand on his pant leg. It would give him great pleasure to annihilate, slowly and with much pain, this man who had deformed him.

  From his pocket he took out a Swiss army knife, then went to look for the telephone line to the house.

  “Hanley’s quarters, where are they?” Jake asked Roberta. “Out by the stable. Why?”

  “This waiting is driving me crazy. Maybe we’ll find something.”

  Roberta gripped the shotgun and opened the screen door. “C’mon.”

  With the wind ripping at their hair and clothes, they ran across the yard to Hanley’s bungalow. The first drops of rain began to fall—fat, silver-dollar-size drops.

  The door was unlocked. They rushed inside and, using the weight of their bodies against the powerful gusts, they forced the door closed.

  “What are we looking for?” she asked.

  “Anything that can shed some light on this … this…”

  Roberta didn’t wait for him to finish, she strode across the room to a bureau and pulled drawers out.

  Jake pried open a footlocker under the window and began going through it.

  “Look here.” He sat on the bunk, a shoebox filled with papers, photos, and personal mementos in his lap.

  She sank down beside him and gazed at a faded Polaroid snapshot of a threesome—a thin-legged man in jeans and western straw hat, an ebony-eyed woman, her expression stern, and a dark-haired boy who looked fourteen but probably was only eight or nine.

  Two newspaper clippings. An obituary: Jennifer Eckker, 25, died Monday in her San Francisco residence … surviving are her parents, Hanley and Emily Gates of Cold Creek, California, and a son, Joseph.

  A two-inch article from the San Francisco Examiner, September 9, 1963:

  WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH, BOYFRIEND ARRESTED

  Jennifer Eckker, 25, was found dead in her residence at the Colonial Apartments in the Tenderloin. Her live-in boyfriend, Charles Blackstone was arrested at the scene. Neighbors, hearing the woman’s screams, called the authorities, who were unable to respond in time to save her. Eckker’s eight-year-old son witnessed her death.

  Robbi looked at the photograph of Hanley, his wife, and grandson again. The three were standing in front of a white wooden church.

  Robbi closed her eyes. Another wooden church materialized in the recesses of her mind.

  She heard faint creaks and groans. The walls of the chapel vibrated like a living creature breathing in and out. The ceiling sagged, opened up to the sky. What did it mean?

  “The walls are coming down,” Robbi whispered. “The church is falling apart.”

  Jake took her hands. “Which church. His church?”

  “Yes.” Robbi saw the parishioners in the chapel waver, grow nebulous as they seemed to break up along with the building. The building was disintegrating. She saw weeds and wildflowers growing inside the empty shell.

  “Ruins.” She spun around to Jake, grabbed his arm. “Not a church, but the ruins of a church.”

  “On this mountain?”

  Roberta jumped to her feet, charged by the probability.

  They ran back to the house through the steady rain. Pomona had brought tea on a silver tray and was pouring.

  “Mom, do you know of any old buildings, a church maybe, around here?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never paid much attention to the area. Your father is the one who knows this mountain inside and out. Before his stroke he traipsed all over—”

  A distant voice shouted Lois’s name.

  “That’s the mister now,” Pomona said. “Hanley, he usually put him to bed long ago.”

  Lois rose slowly, looking weary. “Jake, could you help me with my husband?”

  “I think it’s time you, Pomona, and your husband left.” He took her arm. “I’ll help you take him out.”

  “Wait,” Robbi said, stopping them. “Give me a few minutes with him.”

  “Honey, leave him alone. You know how difficult he can be.”

  “We have no choice, Mom. He may know where she is.”

  Lois nodded.

  “I’ll bring the car around to the back door,” Jake said.

  “Pomona will show you where the keys are,” Roberta said, hurrying from the room.

  She had never been in his bedroom in this house, but she had only to follow a tap-tap and the string of curses to find the room and her father. At the end of the long hallway stood a pair of white enameled doors.

  Roberta rapped lightly.

  “Come! Come!”

  She opened the door and stepped in.

  Caught off guard by her presence, his jaw worked up and down. He recovered. “Lost?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave. Send Hanley.”

  “In a minute. I—I need some answers.”

  He looked past her to the doorway, where Lois silently stood. “What is this, a circus? Where the hell is Hanley? I’d like to retire, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Roberta forced herself to stay calm. “Tobie’s in trouble.”

  “Her mother can handle it,” he said. “I want to go to bed.”

  “Cameron,” Lois stepped into the room.

  “Out. Both of you.”

  “Dammit. It’s no use, you were right,” Roberta said to her mother, turning to go. “We’re only wasting time with him. I’m calling the police.”

  Lois stopped her, turned to her husband. “Cameron, this is very serious. Tobie—”

  “Is your responsibility,” he cut in brusquely. “If she’s in trouble, you get her out.” He swiveled the wheelchair around, putting his back to them.

  Lois stood still for a moment, then bore down on her husband, anger twisting her face.


  “You listen to me. You have a daughter. She’s thirteen years old. Right now, as we speak, a monster of a man has her in some godforsaken place in these woods, and he may kill her. Do you understand? You’ve been all over these hills.” Without taking her eyes from him, she said, “Robbi, tell him what you’re looking for.”

  “A stone and log structure, probably the ruins of a church.”

  Something in his eyes sparked.

  He knew. The bastard knew. Roberta felt a mixture of disgust and elation.

  “Tell her where it is,” Lois demanded, gripping the wheelchair tightly.

  “She’d never find it.”

  Robbi ran from the room, oblivious of the tears welling up in her eyes.

  She rushed into the gun room. On a bookshelf she found dozens of regional maps. Pulling them down, she tossed one after another aside until she found the right one.

  She ran back into her father’s bedroom. Unfolding the map, snapping the crisp paper open, she put it on his lap, grabbed his hand, and slapped it on the face of the map. “Show us.”

  He glared at her, defiance in his eyes. “Where’s Hanley?”

  “Dead.”

  His head jerked up.

  “That’s right. Hanley’s dead, killed by the man who has Tobie. Killed by his own grandson.”

  He looked from Roberta to her mother; a flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes. Then he seemed to deflate before her eyes. He looked down. His hand began to move slowly over the map. He stopped, his palm flat on the paper. Robbi recognized a portion of it as the Paxton land. Then, his hand curled, his shaky forefinger pointed to a spot south of the highway, national forest. “There,” he said flatly.