The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  “Cletus is over to his job in the hardware store.”

  “I told him I’d bring back his fishing creel. I washed it good after the coroner finished.”

  Instead of grasping it by the strap, Mrs. Minch reluctantly took the creel in both hands as if it were a small animal. “I don’t know if Cletus’ll be down to the river to fish anymore.”

  “Aw, he should go fishing,” said the sheriff. “I would if I was young. Tell him to come see me. He did his duty and…Well, I’d like to encourage him.”

  Mrs. Minch stared over the sheriff’s shoulder as if there might be an answer in the clear blue sky. “Cletus says fishing won’t feel the same. Says the freedom of it’s lost.”

  As he walked back to his office, Sheriff Grogan was glad he’d had his say and hoped Cletus would visit. A buzzard soared above, heading south toward the river. He stood in the center of the street and watched the buzzard for a long time. The buzzard catching the updraft from the gorge, not having to flap its wings, heading south like the mountains there had a morsel on the end of a line and were reeling the buzzard in.

  Chapter 25

  After the Learjet landed, Guzzo drove his rental Camry to the same junkyard truck shop from which he’d rented the tow truck. The alcoholic manager sat on an old car seat in front of the office shack. Guzzo said he needed to do some back road driving. When the manager hesitated, Guzzo lifted his jacket showing his Glock in its shoulder holster.

  The yard had several suspicious-looking windowless chop-shop garages. The manager gave no indication he’d dealt with Guzzo before, struggled to his feet, and limped to a three-year-old Ford 350 crew cab, mumbling it was rough looking but powerful.

  “I don’t need a back seat,” said Guzzo.

  The manager tried a smile in reaction to Guzzo’s smile. “It’s what I got. Super Duty Lariat 4 x 4. Geology crew hauled a horse trailer. Got them where they wanted. Raised suspension, dually rears, oversized tires, skid pad, front bull guard. Tough as shit.”

  Filling out paperwork with bogus California ID, Guzzo noticed a stack of fire extinguishers and emergency medical boxes, most likely lifted from “junked” vehicles.

  The pickup smelled of booze and cigarettes until Guzzo was well down the road with windows wide open and air conditioning blasting. Eventually he closed the driver’s side window but left the passenger window and two rears down. The 350 sounded good, especially with the passenger window down because the huge exhaust pipe was on that side.

  At the airport, cell towers had come into range, pushing through Pescatore’s texts. Three more actors to watch for: unnamed New York competition, government agency people who might be watching the New Yorkers, and Russians. With no change of plan indicated, he’d follow through on the original mark and anyone associated with her. If others got in the way, the big pickup would help. During their last face-to-face, Pescatore insisted federal sources were dead on, meaning there was at least one mole.

  At Interstate 80 Guzzo upped the back windows and floored the 350. Because shitty smells inundated the truck’s fabric, passenger window down would be his routine. He smiled at himself in the rearview mirror. Gas V8, not a diesel like last time. He adjusted the mirror; no one coming on the ramp with him.

  Crazy world, everything interconnected like a Hitchcock plot, complete with MacGuffin, the thing everyone’s after. Could be old money from the 1930s because guys who served in the CCC in Manila, Utah, in 1939 had been marked. A shitload of money hidden away. Russian hounds picking up the scent in Ukraine.

  Lazlo joined Niki in the Green River Historical Society’s back room. They agreed Janos and Mariya take the Class C to a nearby campground south along the gorge and they’d meet there.

  Etta Pratt was a spry old bird wearing a housedress with daises. Reading glasses hung on a silver chain, her eyes blue and clear.

  “At my age I say what’s on my mind. You two married?”

  “We met a few days ago,” said Niki.

  “How nice. I like it when people just meet.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t mind the curator. We’re supposed to be the historical society. She says, forget about it.”

  “You mean the ‘30s when the CCC was here?”

  “Folks today have no idea how difficult things were. FDR pulled us out of it. Today it’s ranching, oil, mining, casinos and anything else that sends cash to Wall Street. I watch TV.” She lowered her voice again. “When I went into the hospital for blood work, they had Fox News on. Can you believe it?”

  “I know what you mean,” said Niki, glancing back at Lazlo. Instead of smiling, Lazlo stared off toward bookshelves, a strange look on his face. Niki returned her attention to Etta Pratt. “About the Manila CCC camp in 1939—”

  “Oh yes, you say your father was there?”

  “Yes, we’d like to get a feel for how things were in town. My father said he was taken to the hospital here for an injury and sometimes they came to a movie.”

  “Let’s see. If your father was here in 1939, it was near the end of the CCCs. By then the ladies auxiliary stopped throwing dances. I used to go, though I wasn’t old enough. Some of us younger girls snuck in and the auxiliary was afraid we’d hook up with older boys. Anyway, no more dances after the head of the auxiliary got interviewed by the newspaper.”

  “The Green River Star?” asked Niki.

  “Yes, my daughter and I still get it delivered. Back then it was a newsboy on a bicycle, now it’s that creature in his pickup truck who drives on the wrong side of the street.”

  “Do you recall stories that might have been in the paper in 1939?”

  “Recall?” Etta stood and walked slowly to a closet behind her. “Lazlo—what an interesting name—Lazlo, perhaps you could help.” Both Etta and Niki waited a moment. Lazlo stared at the bookshelves as if he were in another world.

  “Lazlo?” said Niki.

  “Oh, I can help.”

  Newspapers, boxes of yellowed newspapers from the 1930s. Etta slid one onto a table. “Here it is, 1939.”

  Niki carefully removed the stack from the box labeled 1939 and began reading headlines. “Amelia Earhart Officially Deceased, Thousands Killed in Chilean Earthquake, Hitler’s Demands Never-Ending, Slovak-Hungarian War Begins, Spanish Civil War Ends, Lou Gehrig Gives Moving Speech, FDR Serves Hot Dogs to King and Queen At Hyde Park.”

  Etta put on her reading glasses and watched as Niki went through the newspapers. She stopped Niki at the paper with the FDR headline. “That was sad. Poor Rose.”

  “What?”

  Etta pointed to a sidebar headline. “Cops Still Baffled in Local Girl’s Bloody Murder.”

  Niki sat down with the paper, put it between her and Lazlo so they could both read the article. After a minute they stared at one another. “Hair,” said Lazlo, clearing his throat as if he hadn’t spoken for a long time. “Her hair was pulled out.”

  “Yes,” said Etta. “Rose had the prettiest red hair. There are legends in town about the gorge being named after her. Flaming Gorge because Rose Buckles was flaming gorgeous. Of course that’s impossible; the gorge was named in 1869 by John Wesley Powell.”

  Lazlo had once again turned to stare at bookshelves. He was silent a moment, turned back to the newspapers, then to Etta. “Did you know Rose Buckles?”

  “She was older than me and my classmates. One thing for certain, we all wanted to be like Rose.”

  “In what way?” asked Lazlo.

  “All the young men made eyes at her. She didn’t live long enough. Lazlo is it?”

  Lazlo nodded.

  “You know something about Rose being murdered?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The way you study my eyes.” Etta turned to Niki. “The way he studies my eyes, like a fortuneteller. Rumor was Rose’s father was a fortuneteller. Played a fiddle. Some said he was a Gypsy. Supposedly hight
ailed it before Rose was born.”

  “Lazlo’s a retired detective,” said Niki.

  “Oh, that’s the reason,” said Etta.

  After a pause, Niki asked, “Did Rose Buckles date CCC boys?”

  “She was a little girl when the CCC camps opened. It wasn’t until ‘38 or ‘39 she dated.”

  “Did authorities question anyone in the CCC?” asked Lazlo.

  “They insisted CCC boys had nothing to do with it. Everyone assumed it was a teamster passing through. Teamsters stopped at bars in Rock Springs. Rose and some of her friends snuck over there. Other rumors besides teamsters, of course. One was a Salt Lake Mormon devil came up and did it as a lesson for their girls. In those days we lived for rumors. One thing keeps the story alive around here is the way she was killed. Her hair tore out and her body cut to pieces. A boy named Cletus Minch, who died in the war, found a hand and took it to the sheriff. If Cletus hadn’t been fishing that morning, vultures and wolves would have…”

  Etta seemed to be thinking. Neither Niki nor Lazlo interrupted.

  “After they found what was left of Rose, we heard they had a ruckus down at the Manila camp, Utah state police called in. Supposedly hoodlums and nothing to do with the CCCs. You’ve got to understand, the war in Europe was on everyone’s mind.”

  “Are there articles in the paper about this ruckus at the Manila camp?”

  “Nothing,” said Etta, taking off her glasses. “Some townsfolk thought maybe hoodlums killed Rose. But that rumor died when everything in the news turned to war. I’ve wondered over the years if the so-called CCC camp ruckus had something to do with Rose.”

  Lazlo looked off toward the bookshelves again. “Do any of Rose Buckles’ relatives still live in the area?”

  “One,” said Etta. “Rose had a younger sister who married after the war and had a daughter. The sister and her husband died from lung cancer. Their daughter moved from Green River down to Manila.”

  “Rose’s niece?” asked Niki.

  “She’s middle aged, but damn if she doesn’t look like Rose Buckles grown up, red hair and all. Maybe, since she’s been here with her partner and looked at my papers, she could help.”

  “Is she researching the CCC camp?” asked Niki.

  “She wants to know how her aunt died. I’ll write down her phone number and such.”

  While Etta rummaged inside a huge purse on a table behind her, Lazlo touched Niki’s hand. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Lazlo, is something wrong?”

  “When I was a boy in Ukraine there was an old woman in the village who told fortunes. Funny thing…Etta reminds me of her.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Etta, turning back toward them with a small address book in her hand.

  Mariya drove the Class C while Janos used the GPS to lead them to the campground at which they agreed to meet Niki and Lazlo. Janos leaned forward looking into the oversized outside mirror. “How long has that black SUV been behind us?”

  “Since we left Green River. Should I stop and see if it passes?”

  “There’s a picnic area before the campground. Just ahead, on your left.”

  Mariya pulled in and watched the side mirror. “I think it passed. Wait. It slowed. I can’t see it now.”

  “Park so the side door faces east. I’ll get a message to Lazlo.”

  “You have a signal?”

  “I think so. Marinas are down the road.”

  After sending a text to Lazlo in Hungarian, Janos saw a rocky outcropping at the back of the picnic area, large boulders that might provide an overview. He turned on the Elvis CD someone left in the dash radio and had Mariya lock the side door behind him. He walked straight away from the Class C, watching the spot where the SUV was last seen. In a minute he was climbing a tall boulder. Near the top the road to Manila looping south along the gorge was visible. In amongst another group of boulders not far past the picnic area entrance the sun shone on the black SUV.

  Only a few minutes had passed. Rather than returning to the Class C, Janos slid off the boulder and made his way through high desert scrub. The SUV was backed in, obviously ready to follow when they left the picnic area. Janos reached beneath his jacket out of habit. No shoulder holster, no pistol. Those were back in the apartment storage in Kiev.

  Because of the way the SUV was backed in, he was able to stay out of sight of the side mirrors and the rearview mirror by keeping a boulder between him and the passenger compartment. Eventually, after battling an angry sticker bush, he crawled directly behind the SUV. The engine was off, the darkly tinted side windows open. He smelled cigarette smoke and heard a cough. He expected to hear FBI or Homeland Security men speaking. When the two spoke Russian, he had to stifle and audible grunt.

  “Perhaps we should have followed the others.”

  “Sergi said stay with Nagy and Nemeth. They have the key.”

  “Does Sergi know what the key opens?”

  “Nagy got it from Eva Polenkaya.”

  “It must be the key to a fortune if Sergi’s interested.”

  “A fortune in US dollars would be good for the economy.”

  “We’d get Putin medals.”

  Both men chuckled. Janos crawled away. It was hot in the Class C; Mariya opened windows and shut off Elvis. Janos typed another text in Hungarian to Lazlo.

  “You think Russians have been responsible for these killings?” whispered Mariya.

  “They’re fishing.”

  “What will we do?”

  “Wait for Lazlo and Niki, then decide. Is your international phone charged?”

  Mariya pulled the phone from her backpack. “Who are you going to call?”

  “It’s evening in Kiev. Yuri Smirnov from the SBU home with his vodka. A good time to call a man with connections.”

  Interstate 80, halfway between Rock Springs and Green River, Guzzo saw them parked near the Firehole Canyon 191 exit ramp. The spot they’d parked, the car’s make and model—Dodge Charger, Wyoming rental tags—and the fact there were two men in front made it obvious. Feds or hoods, watching him. He exited at 191 south, the same route he’d taken down to Vernal for the motorcycle job. The Charger followed, a roadmap flipping around in front of the passenger a little too obvious, especially with what looked like a smart phone mounted in a holder on the dash.

  Guzzo recalled the hit men from Bullit chasing Steve McQueen. All they needed was overcoats and hats. A beautiful day, the afternoon sun bright on the Aspen Range. Guzzo took them on a cruise down 191, turning west on the Firehole Canyon road to the gorge. The Charger took the bait. Pescatore had said things were coming to a head. Guzzo repositioned his Glock further forward beneath his jacket. Although there were other vehicles on 191, the canyon road was deserted. He pulled to the side after a blind curve. The Charger passed. He waited until the Charger was out of sight, then another minute.

  He did a U-turn, spinning the dually wheels on embankments. The sound of the engine and stones being thrown came into the open passenger window. Soon they were behind him, heading back to 191. Guzzo glanced at his GPS. No way they had time to get a look at the canyon; they’d U-turned somewhere and were following. He recalled seeing two-tracks heading east into the Aspen Range last time he was here. He turned south on 191 and looked for an appropriate turnoff. The Charger dutifully followed. The first two-track looked like a dead-end. The next had worn ruts and continued far to the east zigzagging up the foothills.

  After turning, the 350 created a fog of dust for them to choke on. Around a rock outcropping to the left there was a steep drop-off to the right. He skidded to a stop. By the time the Charger stopped in his dust plume, he was out on the driver’s side of the Charger with his Glock in both hands, safety off. The driver lowered his window. The passenger held onto a phone. Both kept their hands in sight. The driver wore a Cubs jacket.

  “
You’ve been pulled over before,” said Guzzo.

  The driver did the talking. “What makes you say that?”

  “You know what to do with your hands.”

  “We’re lost.”

  “Does your friend have a GPS tracking app on his phone?”

  “All right, we’re not lost. We just do what we’re told.”

  “Who do you report to?”

  “It’s a phone number; I don’t know. Can you quit two-handing that thing?”

  “Passenger, I saw your hand move.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked the driver. “We’ll go back and say we lost you. That good enough?”

  “Let’s say you turn around here and head back to the highway. Go back to Rock Springs, drop off your rental, and fly away. Can you do that?”

  “Sure, if you give us room to turn around.”

  “You can turn around here.”

  “How?”

  “Back and forth. If you get stuck I’ll pull you out with the truck.”

  Guzzo got back in the truck, belted in, and leaned out the window with his Glock aimed at the passenger who stared at him wide-eyed. He watched as the Charger went forward and back on the narrow two track trying to turn around. When it was broadside and backing up close to the steep drop-off, Guzzo put the truck in reverse and floored it.

  The 350 slammed its oversized rear bumper into the Charger’s passenger side and shoved it sideways down the two-track until it went over the drop-off and turned onto its roof. He had a road flare from the 350’s door pocket out and lit before the Charger stopped rolling. He butt-slid down the shale embankment, Glock in one hand, lit flare in the other. He opened the non-locking gas cap and shoved the flare through the filler flap.

  “Nothing personal!” he yelled, pulling the flare back out.

  Guzzo knew the Charger wouldn’t become an instant movie set fireball, but it had been driven hot, plenty of vapor to keep things going. As Guzzo climbed the embankment, still holding the lit flare, he saw flame at the gas filler door increasing steadily like an idling blowtorch. At the top of the embankment, he turned and stood on the two-track to watch. The driver’s door pushed open, but hit shale. The smashed passenger door didn’t budge and he could see a piece of a side airbag sticking out a half-open window like a pale tongue. There were shouts and screams. Although he was out of the line of fire, he ducked when one of the men fired a gun several times. More screaming followed this.