by J. R. Rain
Sure, I thought, if you don’t mind using yourself as bait.
A solitary hawk, or perhaps a vulture, circled the sky above, its massive wingspan forming an arching V. The sky was cloudless. The sun was almost directly overhead.
I scanned the surrounding desert; I appeared to be alone. Scraggly bushes clung to the sunbaked earth.
With my Browning tucked into my waistband, I stepped out of the car and regretted it almost instantly. The sun was unbearable, true, but it was the heat rising up from the sand that threw me off guard.
I’m getting it from both ends.
If there was indeed a sun god, he was surely smiling wolfishly down on this foolish mortal.
I brought one of the bottled waters with me, locked the car. By habit I set the alarm, and the horn beeped once, echoing down into the canyon. I think something scuttled in a nearby bush, frightened by the beep.
At least the car was safe. And I would know if anyone screwed with it.
I was wearing a tee shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts and basketball sneakers. Boots would have been better against rattlesnakes, although boots would have looked pretty silly with Bermuda shorts. I moved the gun from the small of my back to the front pocket of my shorts, as I didn’t want to sweat on it.
And headed down.
The path was steep. The rocks underfoot loose. More than once I slipped, but never fell, thanks to my cat-like reflexes.
I reached the valley floor without melting or mummifying. There, I found some shade at the base of the cliff wall where I stopped and drank some water.
The valley was far removed from anything. Why had Sly, or whoever he was, been out here in the first place?
Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was part of a bank robbing gang and this valley was their hideout; maybe his fellow bangers turned on him.
The wind picked up, bringing with it a spicy mix of juniper and sage. Or maybe I was just smelling my own cooking flesh.
I knew from my readings that Sylvester A. Myers, the man who first found Sly back in 1901, had been looking for the next great silver claim. Turns out he found a mummified man instead.
The sun angled through the narrow canyon walls. The walls were mostly dirt and sandstone, layered with the occasional swath of something darker, perhaps basalt. The hawk or vulture continued to circle slowly above. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.
Something scuttled in a bush nearby.
Ah, life emerges.
Before me was a mound of three huge boulders. Screwed into one of the boulders was a very old and faded brass plaque. It read: “In memory of the Nameless who helped settle the Wild West.”
That was assuming a lot. Maybe Sylvester didn’t help settle anything. Hell, maybe he had done his best to unsettle things. Maybe that was why he was shot.
Maybe, but somehow I doubted it.
I bent down and took a handful of the hot sand, sifted it through my fingers. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of a man staggering through these canyons, gut-shot, bleeding and hurting. Alone and probably scared. Or not. Do cowboys get scared?
Yeah, probably.
To the east, high on the high cliff above, something flashed. Instinctively, I turned my body, narrowing myself as a target. Beside me, next to my left elbow, a section of the boulder exploded in a small cloud of dust, pelting me with rock fragments. I dove, rolling.
The report from a rifle followed, echoing throughout the valley.
It kept echoing even as I kept rolling.
Chapter Twenty-three
I rolled to the relative safety of the boulders, dirt and sand going up my shorts and into places it had no business going.
Worry about sand in your craw later.
Good idea.
The rocks gave some shelter, but not as much as I would have liked as I was forced to stay low to the ground with my face pressed against the hot earth. I removed my Browning, hoping sand hadn’t gotten lodged in the barrel.
A second shot thunked near my shoes. I jerked my exposed legs in closer as an earsplitting echo followed the shot.
Jesus, that was close.
Blindly, I eased my arm around the boulder, let loose with two shots of my own in the general proximity of the spot I had seen the reflection. The two shots were to give the shooter something to think about. I had seven more to be more careful with.
My return fire seemed to work. The shooting from above stopped, at least for the time being. I lay there behind the boulder, trying to make myself as small as possible—a difficult task at best—alert for any sounds or movement.
And then I saw movement, but not the kind I expected.
Ten feet away, emerging from the shadows of a smaller boulder, probably awakened by the gunshots—that is, if they even slept—was a tarantula. From my perspective, with my face pressed against the hot sand, the thing looked gargantuan.
The gargantuan tarantula took a few steps in my direction.
Jesus.
My skin crawled, and if I wasn’t currently under gunfire attack I might have jumped up and ran.
It continued toward me. Slowly, deliberately....
I swallowed. Sweat rolled from my temple and into my right eye, momentarily blurring the little monster. When my vision cleared, I saw that it had stopped. Now, slowly, it raised its two hairy front legs up into the air. Like a referee signaling a touchdown.
More movement behind it—
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Issuing out of a hole at the base of the boulder, as if straight from Hell, were dozens and dozens of tarantulas. All huge. All hairy, and all moving purposely toward me, like something out of a horror movie.
Like something out of a horror movie?
Hell, this was a horror movie.
Suddenly the water bottle next to me exploded, spraying me with water and briefly confusing the spiders. I had actually forgotten about the gunfight. Hell, the gunfight was almost a welcome distraction at this point.
I took a deep breath, tried to focus. They were just spiders, right? Were tarantulas even poisonous? I think some were. How about California desert tarantulas? And since when did California have tarantulas?
Another shot. As the bullet ricocheted off the boulder near my head, something touched my hand. I jerked my hand away just as a particularly fat and hairy spider tumbled onto its back, its legs kicking at the air furiously.
Sweet Jesus.
I gathered myself, mentally considered my choices, realized I didn’t have many, and then did the only thing I could think of. I fired a single shot from around the boulder. The blast sent the tarantulas scurrying—and me scurrying, too.
I stood suddenly, fired two more shots up into the cliff, and dashed off toward the north cliff wall. A single shot exploded in the sand near my feet. I had surprised the shooter. Hell, I had surprised myself.
Breathing hard, sweating even harder, I pulled up next to the curving cliff face, partially out of the shooter’s line of fire. Still, he was somewhere above me.
At least, I thought he was a he.
Typical male bias.
My skin was still crawling. I think I was going to have the heebie-jeebies for a week, if I survived that long.
A jutting rock buttress partially shielded me from the sun and, hopefully, from the shooter. I waited there another ten minutes without incident. Incident being, of course, gunshots and tarantulas. Now there’s a band name for you.
Keeping to the shadows of the cliff trail, I slowly worked my way back up the steep face. Already, I was regretting not having the water.
There were no more gunshots.
Or giant, hairy bugs.
I was about halfway up the cliff face when I heard it: the sudden roar of an engine. Recklessly, I pocketed my pistol, scrambled up the rest of the way as fast as I could.
Just as I crested the cliff ridge, I saw a blue Rawhide truck hauling ass out of here, kicking up about a mile’s worth of dust in its wake.
I looked over at my car; it appeared unm
olested. Hopefully, it still had some gas.
A moment later, sitting in the hot seat, I slipped the key into the ignition. Praying hard, I turned the key. The engine started with a roar. I still had more than half a tank.
Thank God.
Chapter Twenty-four
My mother’s cemetery, late.
I had been drinking all evening. Cindy was away in Santa Barbara with some girlfriends. Not a bad idea since I tended to spend the weekends watching football.
Alone for the weekend, I was free to drink. Whoopee. Only I didn’t want to get so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy football. That would just be stupid.
Fuck football.
Okay, now I knew I was drunk.
With the engine still running, I was parked along Vicente Street, next to the cemetery’s entrance. My lights were off.
The cemetery was massive and rolling, covering many dozens of acres. Lots of dead bodies here. Of those bodies, I wondered how many had been murdered. And of those murders, I wondered how many went unsolved?
At least one, I thought.
Would be an interesting, if not macabre, poll.
It was after hours. The cemetery was black and empty. Through the low wrought-iron fence, I could see the gentle sweep of the landscape, which was populated with black oak trees. There were no tombstones in this cemetery; rather, brass nameplates embedded in the grass. Those who cared did not allow the grass to overgrow the nameplate. I was one of those who cared.
I wondered if ghosts haunted the cemetery. If so, I wondered how many were now watching the Mustang and the drunken man inside and if they remembered what it was like to get drunk. I wondered if I really believed in ghosts.
On this night, with the full moon shining overhead, with too much alcohol coursing through my veins, it was easy to believe in ghosts.
I drank from a warm can of beer nestled between my legs. The beer tasted horrible.
The glass inside my car was steaming over. My leather seats were cold to the touch. I was sweating, could feel it collecting above my brow. Soon it would roll down my cheeks and nose. I always sweat when I drink too much. Not sure why. Maybe it excites me.
I finished the beer and crumpled it in my hand. I picked up the bouquet of flowers from the seat next to me and stepped out of the Mustang. The cool night air felt heavenly against my hot skin. A soft breeze swept through the graveyard, rustling the branches of the many trees. That is, I hoped it was a breeze, and not some poor lost soul.
Using one hand to pivot, I jumped the low fence, kicking my legs up and over.
On the other side, I staggered down the grassy slope, crossing over the final resting places of the dead, mumbling drunken apologies, until I stopped in front of a familiar nameplate near a small oak tree.
I stared down in numbed silence.
The brass plate glistened in the residual city light.
Today was November 2nd, my mother’s birthday.
There were no flowers on her grave, of course, for she had no family and no friends, other than me. I set the bouquet across the grave, in the area of her chest and her clasped hands
I closed my eyes and saw my mother as I always remembered her: beautiful and radiant, smiling warmly down at me, alive and healthy. I imagined her taking the flowers from me and kissing me on the cheek, then holding me at arm’s length, cocking her head.
“Thank you, Jimmy, they’re beautiful.”
I opened my eyes. The cemetery was empty. The grass looked black, and my mother’s nameplate was hidden now in a blur of tears. She was down there somewhere, beneath my feet. The woman who loved me with all her heart.
“Happy birthday, ma.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Parents of the deceased are always difficult calls, and this one was no different. Over the phone, I explained to Edna Clarke, Willie’s mother, who I was. She was confused at first, but eventually agreed to meet with me.
An hour later, I parked in front of a stylish Tudor revival in the Fullerton Hills. I turned my wheels into the curb, as any good car owner should.
At the door, I knocked firmly. As I waited, I admired the door. Cut glass, brass trim, heavy oak. Hell, my knuckles were still smarting from the firm knock.
Footsteps creaked. A murky figure appeared in the opaque glass. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. An elderly woman smiled at me. She was wearing reading glasses. Behind the narrow glasses, her amplified eyes were red. I smiled back. She asked if I was Jim Knighthorse and I said the one and only. She invited me in, and in I went.
I followed her into a living room bigger than my apartment, and we sat across from each other on red leather sofas. A mohair throw rug connected the two couches. Behind me was a black Steinway piano.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Knighthorse?”
“No thank you, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”
She nodded. Her eyes were dull. She didn’t gesture. She just sat there with her hands clasped in her considerable lap. Was probably a hell of a comfortable lap.
“First off, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know it’s difficult. I’ve dealt, and am still dealing with, a family loss of my own.”
The dullness in her eyes faded, to be replaced by legitimate concern. “Who did you lose, dear?”
“My mother.”
Her eyes watered up. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“You keep calling me dear,” I said. “And I am liable to cry.”
I don’t know why I said that. Perhaps because she reminded me of my own mother. Or perhaps she was a mother who had lost her only son, and I was a son who had lost his only mother. We were a good match.
“You can cry, Mr. Knighthorse. I won’t mind.”
“Someday,” I said. “I might take you up on that offer.” A very fat black cat walked into the living room. Along the way he rubbed up against anything he could, and finally rubbed up against me. Good choice. I scratched him heartily behind his ears. He seemed to enjoy it, if the purring was any indication. “I understand your son lived here with you, Ms. Clarke.”
“Yes.”
“Did he own any credit cards?”
“Yes, but they were in my name.”
“Have you received the latest credit card statement?”
She frowned a little and bit her lower lip. “No, not yet.”
“Can you do me a favor, Ms. Clarke, and call the credit card company and see what charges your son made prior to his death.”
She looked at me and sat for a moment, thinking. Then she got up and crossed the room and stepped through a doorway. She returned with a credit card and a cordless phone. She sat back down again and dialed the number on the back of the card. She waited, her round knees bouncing nervously. Next, Ms. Clarke punched in the credit card number.
“The last charge was at a Chevron station in Barstow,” she reported. “Thirty-eight dollars.”
“Enough for a full tank of gas,” I said. “What day was it?”
She clicked off the phone. “The last day I saw him alive.”
She was rubbing her upper arms with her hands. Tears were in her eyes. I got up from my couch and slid next to her and hugged her tightly. Her shoulders were soft but strong. She was all mother.
“But I don’t understand, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“Neither do I.”
“Did someone make sure he ran out of gas that day? Is that what you are implying?”
I waited a moment, breathed deeply. I filled my lungs with the soft perfumed scent of her.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I’m implying.”
“But the police—”
“The police are good, but they are overworked. It’s not their job to look for a murder where one doesn’t appear to exist. Makes for less paperwork that way.”
“But you—”
“I am not the police. And it is my job to look deeper into this. And since I run my own agency, I don’t believe in paperwork.”
I told her about the shoot
out in the desert, about how someone had wanted me dead as well. How I thought the attack on me was related to her son’s death. As I talked, she covered her mouth with her palm, and wept silently.
“I’m going to find answers for you,” I said, “I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-six
They were waiting for us on the practice field, laughing and joking, butting heads like young rams, stretching, generally relaxing and conserving their energy for the grueling practice that was sure to come.
I approached with the other coaches through a gate in the chain link fence. Earlier, I had been introduced to the rest of the staff, and now I was wearing a maroon polo shirt, polyester shorts and a whistle. The shirts and shorts were too small. I looked like a pro basketball player from the eighties, if basketball players had shoulders like a bull. But at least I had a whistle, and sometimes that’s all that matters.
As we approached, all eyes shifted to me, the new guy. The white new guy. The players were all wearing their generic practice jerseys, which made distinguishing them from one another nearly impossible. Yet I knew Coach Samson knew them all by shape, size and probably smell.
The team was 1-4. One win and four losses. This might be Coach Samson’s first losing season in 27 years.
Unless, of course, I could do something about it.
The fall afternoon was bright—and hot. The kids were already sweating under their football pads. In heat like this, I did not miss the extra twenty pounds of equipment strapped to my back.
Coach Samson blew his whistle and the players fell in, forming seven remarkably straight rows.
I stood before the team with the other coaches. The faces behind the face masks were all black. I could feel their eyes on me. Sizing me up. Watching me, the Whitey. Probably wondering who the hell I was and why I was here.
They were too young to remember me.
And now they would never forget me.
Coach Samson stepped before them; his massive shadow fell across the practice field. Hell, one of the biggest shadows I’d ever seen. The others stood with their hands casually behind their backs, inspecting the integrity of the seven lines of young men.
