by Warren Adler
Then the Temples had arrived: a rich man hoping to restore the bonds of fatherhood with his two weird adult children. It startled him to see the brother and sister fucking, but it put the idea of blackmail in his head. He knew they saw him as just another dumb faceless illegal, an ignorant wetback, an abused and put-upon piece of human shit. He listened carefully to their intimate talk and knew he had found the possibility of a golden opportunity.
Blackmail was a well-worn plot in his paperback reading. He had gambled on their fear of exposure, and it had seemed to work. He had panicked them and got them to react to his threats. It gave him the impetus as well to settle the score with his employer. For a long time he had contemplated the method, and his success with the Temples had goaded him to put his plan into action.
He had no illusions about what he was up against. Despite his attempt to make it seem as if a grizzly had accidentally killed Harry, he knew that an investigation by experts might eventually uncover his ploy, and the authorities might figure out how it had occurred. The woman had already hinted that she suspected what had happened.
He had decided to take off as soon as they reached West Yellowstone, using the money he had collected from the Temples. If the woman attempted to screw him out of the hundred thousand, he would find her and kill her. Now he was faced with another decision that he turned over in his mind as he led the sickly old man up the pass, deliberately moving up ahead of the man’s two children, prodding his horse forward in the blinding rain.
After the first switchback he had grabbed the reins of Temple’s horse to be certain it would keep the pace he had set. He needed to put distance between them and the others. Above all, he needed time to think.
He knew, too, that his principal deal was with the woman, a miserable ruthless bitch who would stop at nothing to get her own way. He had determined that her brother was a cowardly weak idiot that had been led around by his cock by the rotten sister. As for the father, he was a nice man but a sentimental old fool, who was being set up to part with as much of his money as the two terrible children could get. He had encountered similar situations in the various books he had read.
Now, as he made his way upward on the switchbacks of Eagle Pass with the rain pelting his face, he was contemplating an offer that was too tempting to refuse offhand. The bitch was asking him to murder her father and her brother and make it look accidental in exchange for a half-million dollars.
The idea of murder, despite what he had devised for Harry, was of deep concern. Harry was an evil man who had abused him without mercy. In that case he had caused the conditions for his death, but it had not been done by his own hand. One might say that Harry’s death by a grizzly was God’s will.
While he rarely went to church and had been to confession only a couple of times since entering the United States, he had been taught the catechism and was aware of God’s mercy and the concept of heaven and hell, which had been drilled into him as a child by the village priest.
Despite all the tough talk of killing, he had not entirely lost his sense of salvation and his fear of eternal damnation. He could kill an animal by his own hand and had done that numerous times, but this was more out of mercy for the animal and for food to survive. This was justified, not sinful and not, in his mind, worthy of punishment.
But killing anther human being was a troubling idea, despite the temptation to free himself from poverty and perhaps do good things for himself and his family. Harry’s death had been another matter. These people he had been asked to murder had done him no harm and except for the fact that they were gringos, he was having trouble justifying such an act. Actually, his hesitation surprised him. The temptation was awesome.
He had devised the manner in which they could die: by deliberately laming the horses that they rode and pushing horse and rider over the narrowest switchback. The long fall would undoubtedly kill the rider and probably the horse instantly. He admitted to himself that he would not be able to avoid the pangs of conscience, although he was hopeful that he might confess the act and be forgiven.
He would, of course, have to flee the area, perhaps hook up with another outfitter in another state far from Montana, maybe New Mexico or Arizona. No one in authority would believe any version of his alibi even if the woman who clearly benefited from the deaths backed it up. He did not believe she could be that good of an actress. What he hoped was that the wildlife would destroy the identity of the bodies before they were found.
Even that would not end the matter, since Harry was registered as an official guide and had reserved the campsite in advance. Sooner or later, the park administration would have to investigate his disappearance.
He knew the ropes of the underground and the various ways to get around the authorities, and he was well aware that the bitch was not to be trusted. On that issue, he would have to gamble. If she didn’t come across with her end of the bargain, he would certainly consider killing her, but in that case—as in Harry’s—he might find justification and forgiveness. She was, after all, a mean lady who had sinned against God by fornicating with her brother.
She might, of course, deny the deal she had made with him. In that case he felt certain that he would find her and make her comply. Like the characters he had encountered in the many mysteries and thrillers he had read, he would devise ways to get what he wanted. If not, he would be justified in killing her. What would another death matter? Still, he continued to wrestle with his decision and remained conflicted and unsure about taking action.
Looking behind him, he could see the old man listing precariously on his horse, which managed the soggy switchbacks with increasing difficulty. In this situation four legs were better than two. He noted that the rain was gaining in intensity, and the thunder and lightening seemed to be heading their way.
It was impossible to hear or see any sign of the others. But there was no escaping that he had reached that place where the trail was at its narrowest point, overlooking the sheerest drop near the summit. It was the prefect spot to do the deed. He slowed his horse and dropped the reins of Temple’s horse.
His plan was to dismount, tether his horse to a tree, lame Temple’s horse with the axe affixed to his saddle, and push horse and rider into the valley below. Then he would lie in wait and repeat the action with the son’s horse. It was all worked out in his mind. Still, he hesitated.
As he reached the point in the trail that he had designated as the perfect spot, a sudden lightening strike split a tree less than ten feet from where he stood, followed by a teeth-shattering blast of thunder. Both horses in the train bellowed and rose on their hind legs, panicked by the explosive noise. Tomas himself was stunned and frightened by the sound, which grew louder and closer as the rain intensified and fell in what seemed like solid sheets of water.
He had smashed his axe into the nearest tree and held on to its handle while the lightning and thunder continued its cacophony echoing through the valley below. Is this the voice of God warning him of what he was about to do? He felt his body shake and his heart pound with fear.
Through the solid screen of rain, he could see the vague outline of Temple’s horse, restless and frightened and rising on his hind legs. Between lightening strikes and the loud beat of thunder, he peered through the wall of water and saw that Temple’s horse was riderless. It was obvious that the old man had been unseated. Leaving the balanced safety of the buried axe, he rushed toward the horse and pulled the reins, steadying the horse with the security of the tension.
Searching the ground near the horse, he could find no sign of Temple. Noting that he was close to the precipice, he moved with the horse as far as he could get to the tree line no more than a yard or two from the edge. It was only then that he could assess what might have happened. The frightened horse had thrown Temple, and since there was no sign of him on the trail, it was obvious that he had fallen into the valley below.
The first idea that crossed his mind was that God had intervened and had rescued him from the
devil. He fell to his knees and crossed himself, murmuring remembered prayers in his Spanish. He lost track of time, searching the sky, as if looking for a further sign of God’s staying hand.
After a while the rain eased and the heavily laden black thunderclouds passed on. Hearing sounds of clanking horse bridles, he turned and saw the two following horses and their riders moving slowing round the turn of the switchback. He stood up, watching them with dumb concentration, and then he untethered his horse and waited for them to reach him.
He was not thinking clearly, caught between a desire to continue moving and waiting for the impending confrontation.
The brother’s horse rounded the bend first. His eyes squinted into the scene then inspected the nearby area. Tomas could tell that he had rightly interpreted the situation. Courtney’s horse had not yet rounded the bend.
“No, amigo,” Tomas screamed. He raised his hand, pointing to the sky. “The horse—”
“You fuck,” Scott cried, jumping off his horse and bounding the few steps toward Tomas, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“I no kill him, amigo. I swear to Jesus. He fall. The storm—”
“You murdering bastard,” Scott cried, banging his fists into Tomas’s face, drawing blood, which streamed out of his nose. “You fucking killer. You did Harry, now my Dad. You fucking miserable bastard.”
Tears running down his cheeks, his face twisted into a mask of profound desperation and rage, he pummeled Tomas with his fists. At first, disoriented and confused, Tomas did not resist. Then, in a knee jerk act of survival defense, he realized that the man was acting out of murderous rage, and he began to fight back.
He kicked Scott in the groin, forcing him to double up in agony and fall to his knees.
“I no kill him, I swear to Jesus. I no kill him.”
He met Scott’s gaze, repeating his words like a mantra.
“I no kill him. I swear, amigo. I no kill him.”
He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of both denial and supplication. With effort Scott stood up, still in pain, his breath coming in gasps.
At that moment Courtney riding round the switchback bend, moved toward them, obviously puzzled by the scene of the two men confronting each other.
“She,” Tomas pointed to Courtney then turned to Scott, whose complexion had turned dead white as the tears continued to flow. “That she-devil whore sister, she wanted me to kill your padre—”
“Shut your stupid mouth, asshole,” Courtney cried.
“Your padre fall. I do nothing.”
“You should both rot in hell,” Scott cried, his eyes shifting between Tomas and his sister.
“She is devil, amigo. She promise me half a million from your padre if I kill him. But I no kill him. I swear, amigo.”
Scott, breathing heavily, looked toward his sister, who had dismounted, burning with obvious rage.
“Don’t you believe that fucking Mexican lying bastard. He’s making up a story to save his own ass.” She turned toward Scott, whose eyes shifted between his sister and the Mexican, obviously confused and uncertain.
“You murdered Harry,” Scott muttered, charging Tomas again, hysterical with anger. “And my father.”
Both men fell to the muddy ground, twisting and turning in the muck, rolling precariously toward the edge of the narrow switchback.
Tomas felt the man’s hands clasping his throat, pressing hard, beyond his own capacity to loosen the grip. He knew he was choking, losing air, on the cusp of oblivion, blackness descending like a curtain closing. Hysteria had given the brother focus and strength. They were on the very edge of the precipice.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman moving toward his horse where the rifle was encased in a leather holster. He saw her remove the rifle, point it toward them, and then heard the blast. He heard the man’s brief cry of pain and the panicked sounds of the horses as they fled. He felt, too, the clamping hands around his neck loosen and the air rush into his lungs. But his strength had ebbed, and he could not find in himself the power to rise.
Looking up, he saw the woman’s face, smiling, a fearful image of what he was certain was the face of the devil.
The woman kneeled, and he felt the lunging pressure on his body, as he and the dead weight above him locked together in an embrace of death fell into space.
In the seconds it took for him to rush downward into the bottom of the valley, he was not certain whether he heard the musical trill of a heavenly sound or the ominous drumbeat from the burning pit of hell.
Epilogue
In the report of the first ranger on the scene where a group of trekkers had found a wandering woman, he described her as disoriented and deranged, obviously suffering both mentally and physically from a long episode of exposure. Apparently, from identity papers found in her possession, she was registered as a client of Harry McCabe, whose body had not yet been found.
Human bones were found scattered over some distance in the valley below Eagle Mountain. A New York driver’s license that could have come from one of the McCabe party identified someone as George Temple, aged seventy-two, giving his address in New York City.
There was a curious paragraph in this very preliminary first report that was listed as an addendum by the first ranger. He apprised his superiors of the fact that he had been an English major at the University of Wyoming, and he noted that the obviously deranged woman was muttering repetitive lines from what he recognized as the famous scene from Shakespeare’s Macbeth spoken by Lady Macbeth before she commits suicide. Perhaps to impress his superiors, he quoted:
“Out, damned spot! out, I say.—One, two;—why, then ’tis time to do’t.—Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?”
It is reported that the superior was impressed. The woman died before she could be hospitalized. The investigation is continuing.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Warren Adler is a world-renowned novelist, short-story writer, poet, and playwright. Over the past 40 years the prolific writer has published nearly three dozen books and more than a third of them have been sold to Hollywood. His most famous book, The War of the Roses, a masterpiece fictionalization of the ugliest divorce ever, was turned into a box office hit with Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner. Random Hearts, starring Harrison Ford, was a major motion picture, and The Sunset Gang was a PBS trilogy. His books have been translated into 25 languages and have been reviewed or featured in The New York Times, LA Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Cosmopolitan, Newsweek, Variety, Glamour, Washington Post, W, Time, Rolling Stone, Gannett News Service, and the Hollywood Reporter. He has also appeared on the Today Show and Good Morning America. Adler writes several times a week for The Huffington Post. He resides in Manhattan and can be found at www.warrenadler.com.
