Jackrabbit Junction Jitters

by Ann Charles

  Turning back, she shined the penlight on Claire’s face. “By the way, we’re not leaving until we find proof that Butch is trying to steal the Lucky Monk, so start digging.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mac stared at the dead man, unable to drag his gaze from the withered corpse—especially its empty eye sockets.

  Tucked away deep in the Lucky Monk’s dry innards, Father Time and Mother Nature’s creatures had been kind to the body. Tuffs of hair still clung to the skull, along with patches of leathered skin, stretched tight across both cheekbones. The right ear lobe was half chewed off. The left ear was missing entirely, no doubt a tasty meal for one of the mine’s past residents.

  His flashlight beam reflected in the unbroken lenses of a pair of wire-rim glasses that sat askew on the man’s face. The nose was nothing more than two holes, not even a hint of cartilage remaining. The mouth gaped open, frozen in a silent scream, lips peeled back to expose crooked, brown teeth.

  As he watched, a spider crawled up the piece of loose, dried flesh hanging from the chin, scuttled over the bottom set of teeth and disappeared in the shadow-filled mouth.

  Something touched the back of Mac’s neck.

  He jerked back, scraping his elbow and forearm on a serrated rock edge. The flashlight slipped from his grip, the beam cartwheeling through the air before it clattered between two small boulders at his feet.

  Then the world went black.

  Mac brushed frantically at his neck in the darkness, his breathing ragged, his heart a juggernaut in his chest.

  The rock he stood on wobbled underfoot, then rolled out from under him. He stumbled, reaching out to catch his balance and busting his knuckle on another sharp edge. He landed on a pointed chunk of rock, his hard hat tipping to the side.

  “Fuck me,” he said in the darkness. Pushing to his feet, he rubbed his throbbing ass cheek and coughed on the dust he’d stirred up.

  From the other side of the hole, he heard a scratching sound.

  The blackness surrounding him seemed to grow thick, choking. He flicked on the light on his hard hat and stared at the hole.

  With his breath locked in his chest, he heard the sound of toenails—or bones?—on stone. Rocks clattered to the floor on the other side.

  Something was climbing the other side of the rock pile.

  In a blink, Mac jerked into action. He scrambled down the remaining rock pile, grabbed his backpack, and rocketed toward the main adit.

  Minutes later, he leaned against the wall next to the place where he’d spread out the maps earlier that afternoon. His lungs ached; sweat rolled down his forehead.

  Glancing back toward the direction of the cave-in, he shook his head, disgusted with himself. With distance between him and the dead man, his common sense had reclaimed its position at the helm.

  Sure now that what he’d heard was a packrat or some other critter who had also been exploring the cave-in’s leftovers, he debated his next course of action. Should he wrap up his work in the Lucky Monk tonight and head back to Ruby’s? Or should he head to Yuccaville first and report the dead guy to the sheriff’s office?

  He sipped from his canteen, still mulling what to do as he swished the warm water around, washing the dust from the back of his throat as he swallowed.

  That dead man had sat in the mine for a long time. What was another night? Mac would hit Yuccaville in the morning.

  A thought hit him—he hadn’t checked to see if the dead man had both hands. He shoved off the notion. That wasn’t important right now.

  Claire’s words about Treasure Island and Flint’s Pointer replayed in his head:

  And Flint’s pointer refers to the skeleton of a man Flint killed and then used as an indicator to where the treasure was hidden … the skeleton is a pointer that leads to the “jolly dollars.”

  Mac looked back in the direction of the cave-in again, trying to remember details about the dead man’s body and if an arm or leg had been pointing in a particular direction.

  Unfortunately, he’d been so mesmerized by the tattered remains of the guy’s face that he couldn’t even picture what the dead man had been wearing other than glasses.

  Without a doubt, he knew that as soon as he told Claire about the body, she’d insist on coming up to the mine with or without him and seeing the dead guy for herself, risking her life in a very unstable section of the mine.

  Damn.

  He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he shouldn’t tell her about the remains.

  Right, and when she found out about the skeleton—and she undoubtedly would somehow—and realized he’d skipped her and gone to the police without even checking to see if the skeleton had two hands, she’d be pissed as hell.

  “Shit.” Mac sighed.

  That left just one option—go back and take another look at the dead man tonight.

  But if he was going to pay another visit to the dead man, he wasn’t going to do it from this side of that hole. He needed the pry bar and some of his other tools he’d stashed behind a greasewood bush near the mouth of the mine.

  This time, he’d get some answers to a few questions of his own, like how the guy died, if he’d been a miner, and if he had any kind of identification on him at all.

  Blocking out the fear that tingled up from the base of his spine at returning to the cave-in, he squared his shoulders and tried to mentally prepare himself for his up close and personal meeting with the dead man.

  * * *

  “You’re doing it wrong,” Claire said from where she sat in a plush patio chair while she watched Kate dash from window to door to window, searching for a way into Butch’s fortress.

  Kate’s obsession with Butch being Darth Vader’s evil twin had “therapy” written all over it.

  The desert’s creatures of the night kept Claire company. A giant crab spider scurried across the partially lit terrace while crickets chirped from shadows over by the potted palms surrounding a small pool with a fountain in the center of it. A warm breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth mixed with pungent greasewood, blew wisps of her hair across her face.

  “Would you stop saying that?” Kate wiggled both handles on the second set of French doors that led out onto the patio.

  “Well, you are. And you already tried those doors.”

  “Just shut up!” Kate scared the crickets into silence.

  “If wearing all black is your idea of coming prepared to a breaking-and-entering party, you haven’t learned a thing from me over the years.”

  With a brush-off wave that incorporated the use of her middle finger, Kate strode across the patio, away from the house, and down the steps leading to a large pole barn with three garage doors fronting it. Butch seemed to be into super-sizing his dwellings.

  Claire lifted her feet, making way for a beetle on its route across the patio tiles toward one of the motion sensor lights. “Kate, where are you going?”

  Kate didn’t answer her. Claire looked over to find her sister shining her penlight in one of the pole barn’s windows.

  “Can we go back to Ruby’s now?” Claire asked. Her voice sounded tired even to her own ears.

  Now that she’d calmed down about being tricked into driving to Butch’s place, she felt like a deflated party balloon. She wanted nothing more than to sit in front of Ruby’s TV with a mixer bowl full of cereal in milk while she waited for Mac to come back from the mine.

  Some nicotine wouldn’t hurt, either.

  The idea of driving off alone and leaving Kate for the scorpions and coyotes to fight over tempted her. That would teach Kate a lesson for lying to her.

  “Claire?” Kate’s nose was still pressed against the window.

  “What?”

  “What color was Joe’s old El Camino?”

  “Midnight blue, why?”

  “I’m just wondering if the El Camino I’m looking at is one and the same.”

  Claire sprung from her chair, her flip-flops flapping as she raced to the pole barn window.

 
; “Let me see that.” She grabbed Kate’s penlight and shouldered her sister aside.

  “Hey! Pushy.” Kate knuckled Claire’s shoulder hard. “This is my breaking-and-entering shindig. Go find your own light.”

  She reached for the penlight, but Claire held it out of her reach.

  “Just give me a minute, would you?”

  Claire turned back to the window, ignoring her throbbing shoulder, and shined the bright light through it.

  Sure enough, there sat Joe’s old El Camino, shiny and overflowing with muscle, parked in the center of the oversized garage. The custom red leather bench seat glowed next to the midnight blue hand-rubbed paint job.

  She directed the beam of light along the car’s sleek lines, wondering why it was sitting in Butch’s garage. The last Claire had heard, Sophy Martino’s name was on the title. A prison sentence shouldn’t have changed that.

  “Has Butch ever talked to you about Sophy?” Claire asked her sister.

  When she received no answer, she looked over her shoulder. Kate was nowhere to be seen.

  “Kate?” She shined the light into the grove of mesquite trees behind her. “Where are you?”

  Still no answer.

  Claire shrugged. Kate had probably gone back up to the house to nose around some more.

  Turning back to the window, she shined the penlight back in at the El Camino, memories of Sophy’s deadly threats and shotgun blasts dancing through her head.

  For the first time since she’d met Butch last spring, uncertainty about his character made her tense. What did she really know about the guy, besides the fact that he’d been tending bar at The Shaft for close to a decade? How could he afford such an elaborate house, not to mention the set-up in his office at the bar? How well had he known Sophy? Did their relationship go deeper than fellow Rotary Club members?

  The tinkling sound of glass breaking snapped Claire back to the present. Something moved in the garage, off to the right of the El Camino’s front bumper.

  She redirected the beam of light. The sight of Kate standing next to the car, brushing her hands on her jeans made Claire snarl.

  “God damn it.” She pounded on the window, snaring Kate’s attention.

  “What?” Kate mouthed, blinking in the beam of light.

  “I’m leaving right now!” Claire yelled. “And you are, too!”

  * * *

  Kate crossed her arms and shook her head. She shielded her eyes from the penlight’s beam and held a silent stare-down with Claire, even though all she could see of her sister was the black outline of her head.

  She was not leaving, not after finally finding a way into Butch’s fortress—okay, forcing her way in. And while the garage didn’t exactly open up to a secret room in his house, it was a start.

  Besides, she wanted to see what he was hiding behind those black-painted windows around the back side of the garage. The moldy, stale, humid smell leaking out through the myriad vents interspersed below the windows had filled her head with a new suspicion, one that involved the Mexican border, oodles of cash, and a little plant called “Mary Jane.”

  Claire shined the penlight on the pickup keys she was holding, then Kate, then the direction where the pickup waited.

  Kate smiled and waved, calling Claire’s bluff. Her sister would never leave without her, not with their mother waiting for them back at Ruby’s.

  She skirted the El Camino and unlocked the door leading to the outside, in case Claire came to her senses and decided to join her.

  Ignoring Claire’s loud raps on the glass, Kate headed for the room at the back of the garage only to find the door locked. She should’ve anticipated that. Glancing around, her gaze landed on a tall tool chest against the wall. A screwdriver would make short work of the lock.

  She heard the flap of flip-flops behind her as she picked up the screwdriver.

  “Give me that thing.” Claire snatched the screwdriver from Kate’s hand.

  “I thought you were leaving.”

  “I should have. I’m sure I’ll regret this.” Claire pocketed the screwdriver and held out her hand. “Give me your Visa card.”

  “What makes you think I have a Visa card on me?”

  “Please, Kate. You’re a shoe-a-holic. You never travel anywhere without a credit card.”

  Pulling her platinum card from her inside jacket pocket, Kate dropped it in Claire’s palm. “I’m not a shoe-a-holic. I just like to be prepared for unforeseeable, necessary purchases.”

  “You’re hopeless.” Claire slid the credit card along the edge of the door. Kate tried to watch over Claire’s shoulder, but her sister was too quick. Within seconds, the door popped open.

  Standing back, Claire ushered Kate forward. “After you.”

  “I want my credit card back.” Kate snatched it from Claire and then pushed open the door, walked into the room, and blinked in the bright overhead lights. A wave of humid heat made her breath stick in her throat.

  “Well, would you look at this?” Claire joined Kate. “It looks like we’ve stumbled upon the Great Cactus-Napper’s headquarters. Where’s your camera, Lois Lane? This is all the proof we need to convince the police that Butch is the evil master-mind behind that illegal cacti trading ring.”

  “Cactus?” Kate rubbed her forehead, staring around the large greenhouse. “Why the dark windows then?”

  Clare walked over to one of the tables filled with hundreds of baby cacti sprouting from the small containers of pebble-covered dirt.

  “Who knows? Maybe he likes to control how much sunlight these puppies get.” She looked back to Kate, her arms crossed. “Now, can we go back to Ruby’s?”

  Damn. Wrong again.

  Her shoulders sagging in defeat, Kate nodded.

  She’d thought for sure she’d find a room full of marijuana, which would explain how Butch could afford such a lavish house. The Shaft might be busy most nights, but not enough to support all of this.

  Claire locked the greenhouse door behind them, dropped the screwdriver back in the tool chest, and led the way around the El Camino. She held the outside door open for Kate.

  “I don’t understand where Butch gets his money.” Kate said as she stepped outside.

  “Neither do I.” Claire closed the door. “I wonder why he—”

  “Hold it right there!” a familiar voice commanded from the darkness in front of them. A blinding light blasted them.

  Behind Kate, Claire groaned. “Oh, shit. We’re busted.”

  Busted? Nausea gripped Kate. “I’m going to throw up,” she said, bending over, wheezing.

  “I said don’t move!” Sheriff Harrison hollered. “You’re both under arrest for breaking-and-entering!”

  * * *

  Monday, August 23rd, 2:37 a.m.

  Hard, jagged edges scratched Mac’s shoulders through his T-shirt as he squeezed through the hole into the dead man’s tomb. All of his sweating and swearing had paid off. With the help of his pry bar, he’d managed to widen the gap a few crucial inches without bringing the ceiling down on his head.

  Directing his hard hat light at the skeleton, he realized why he hadn’t noticed whether both hands were present and accounted for when he’d first peeked into the tomb. A large boulder sat in front of the skeleton, blocking the lower half of the dead guy’s body.

  Stones and pebbles clattered to the floor below him as he crawled forward on his hands, sliding his hips, legs, and boots through the hole.

  He half-rolled, half-stumbled down the rocks; the slope was less steep on this side of the cave-in. The smell of dust filled the tomb, thick in the small, enclosed space. The scent of decayed flesh was not even a memory anymore.

  Brushing off his shirt and jeans, Mac tiptoed across the floor toward the skeleton, as if his footfalls might wake the dead. As he approached, he realized that the large boulder that had been blocking his view was actually sitting on the lower half of the dead guy’s left leg. He grimaced at what must have happened and scanned the concave sectio
n of the ceiling. Gravity could be so cruel.

  He walked around to the left side of the body, squatting next to the boulder. A rusted canteen leaned against the wall within the skeleton’s reach, a pickaxe lay a couple of feet beyond, out of reach. An antique brass Davy safety lamp, tinted green with patina, lay on its side next to the canteen.

  So far, all signs pointed to this guy being the missing mine owner he read about when researching the history of the Lucky Monk.

  He tried to budge the boulder with his shoulder, but it wouldn’t move.

  What a miserable way to die: alone in a dark mine, trapped under a chunk of ceiling. Had the miner bled to death? Or had the rock acted as a tourniquet and allowed him to live until the water in his canteen had run dry and then some? The mine floor was too dark and dust-covered to show traces of dried blood in this light.

  Leaning over the body, Mac admired the Lucky Monk’s preservation handiwork. Dried flesh, the color and texture of turkey jerky, clung to the skull and hung in strips from the jaw bone. A dusty, holey shirt draped awkwardly on protruding shoulder bones. The right forearm dripped dried skin, but the left arm was bare, the bone bearing chew marks. Both hands were present, frozen in claw position. Flesh shrink-wrapped the fingers, nails still visible on the digits not gnawed down to the knuckle.

  Mac sat back on his heels. He’d hoped to find a hand missing, making this imprudent trip into the tomb worth his time and energy. Maybe even tie together two pieces of the puzzle upon which Claire had stumbled. Instead, he’d just added another piece that didn’t seem to fit anywhere.

  A tingling in his toes drove him to his feet again. He skirted the boulder and approached the dead man from the right.

  Careful not to disturb the body, Mac trailed his fingers over the pants pockets, wondering if the old miner had carried a leather wallet or anything that would confirm his identity. But he felt nothing, just worn cotton over pelvic bone.