The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  Another movement in the puzzle, heads nodding.

  “It’s time for others to have their say,” said Bela. “Beginning to my right, one by one, with no interruption, what should we do?”

  Chapter 28

  Red Dodge Caravan speeding down the mountain. Dislodged rock on switchbacks crushed to gravel. Lazlo reached across the center console, placing his hand on Niki’s thigh.

  “I’m glad no one’s in front of us,” said Niki.

  “Especially a motor home,” said Lazlo. “It’s 4:30. They’re wheeling residents to dinner, we can speak with Decken afterward.”

  “If he hasn’t fallen asleep,” said Niki, glancing in the side mirror. “By the way, the motor home’s out of sight. It’ll take them a lot longer down mountain. What do you think they’ll do when they get to Vernal?”

  Lazlo turned toward the back. “What do you think they’ll do? Janos? Mariya?”

  With the stowaway seats down, Janos and Mariya lay on the floor. If someone followed only two would be visible. Janos and Mariya were wedged between luggage using Niki’s sleeping bag for cushion.

  Janos from behind the center console, his voice pulsating with each bump. “Although my plan to tie the Russians to the back bumper was creative, I admit yours was better.”

  Mariya beside Janos, her voice pulsating. “Niki, we deserve credit. We adjusted bindings and partially tore duct tape to make certain they’d eventually drive the beast.”

  “When they get to Vernal they’ll have problems,” said Lazlo. “Especially with their ID collections, cash, and phones gone.”

  Niki came up behind a Mazda convertible, the passenger taking photos. Niki repeatedly blasted the horn and the Mazda pulled off at the next overlook.

  “Sorry I riled them,” said Niki.

  “Don’t be,” said Lazlo, feeling a buzz in his pocket. “We have cell coverage. It’s Jacobson.”

  “Lazlo, we’ve got intercepts. Someone with a connection to the killings. No name or ID, but in particular, the one who killed Niki’s father is after her. The pair in the Lincoln Navigator will watch your back. They think they’ve spotted a man in a black pickup. You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Also the Russians—”

  “We took care of them.”

  “I’ll call again when I know more.”

  Vernal came up fast. When the GPS indicated a turn, Lazlo had Niki pass it and go around the block to see if anyone followed. The Mountain View Care Center was on the opposite side of the street. Niki turned into an alley.

  Lazlo turned to the back. “Janos, Mariya, go inside and wait for us.”

  After Janos and Mariya crawled out the side door and disappeared behind a fence, Niki circled the building and squeezed into a parking spot next to another red Dodge Caravan. The back entrance was locked, forcing them to the front. Instead of using the sidewalk, they cut through a garden. Once inside, Lazlo scanned the road in both directions, no black pickup.

  A two-bed room. The aide wheeling Decken in said the roommate would be a while. They had Decken to themselves. He was skinny, wearing flannel shirt and bib overalls. His face weathered, wisps of gray hair tangled like sagebrush over his hearing aides. He was on oxygen, nose tubes connected to the tank on the back of the wheelchair. Below the armrest a label with “Decken MaCade’s damn chair” printed on it.

  Decken smiled at Niki who sat on his bed beside his chair. “You know how old I am?”

  “69?”

  “I like her. I’ll be 94 next month.”

  “Let’s see,” said Niki. “When you were an LEM at the Manila camp you were 21?”

  “Kids in charge of kids.”

  “I realize it’s been a while, Decken. Clancy at the Lucerne Marina mentioned a camp ruckus in 1939 after Rose Buckles’ murder. Can you tell me about that?”

  “You’re not the first asking questions. I kept quiet until Clancy visited for about the tenth time. It’s my age creeping up. Not that I’ve forgotten, just didn’t feel the need to tell anyone.”

  Niki put her hand on Decken’s arm. “My father Nick Gianakos was in camp in ’39. He died recently. They called it an accident, but it wasn’t.”

  A grin toward Niki’s hand. “Barracks Three, I remember the name. The Four Horsemen in Barracks Three: your father Nick, Jimmy Phillips, George Minkus, and Bela Voronko. Can’t recall what was for lunch, but 1939…Yeah, a ruckus. Powers that be snuffed it out. Worried where they’d end up in the service if they couldn’t handle things. Poor leadership, loose lips sink ships, that kind of thing. War coming had everyone out for himself. Toss the camp ruckus on the back burner. Years ago I’d have said I wasn’t sure if Barracks Three boys were involved. But times change and I’m old. Don’t look sad. You think they had anything to do with Rose Buckles’ murder? It’s opposite.”

  “Opposite?” asked Niki.

  “Justice,” said Decken. “Other visitors over the years also had boys in Barracks Three. Wanted to know how things were at camp and what happened. Kept my trap shut. I was yellow. Don’t shake your head. They come here to find out why their enrollee from Barracks Three died the way he died and I say I don’t know a damn thing when I do know a damn thing!”

  Niki waited.

  Decken wheezed, steaming up his breathing tubes before continuing. “Some said enrollees saved red hair. Rose Buckles had red hair like her niece. Clancy got me to realize how yellow I’ve been. No more excuses. Sure, times were rough, and I was in the Navy in the Pacific. I’m a goddamn veteran, but that’s nothing when I think how it went in ‘39 at the Manila camp.

  “The camp’s gone, especially after the Sheep Creek flood. But something’s left behind. I tried to help them. Eventually someone’ll come for me because I know about the hiding place.”

  Decken went silent for a moment. Niki rubbed his arm. “The hiding place?”

  “Yeah, at the fire lookout tower.”

  He laughed and rubbed his eyes. “Let’em come.”

  He pulled his arm away, wheeled his chair backwards, and opened his nightstand drawer. He reached deep inside for a zippered black bag. When he pulled a revolver from the bag he got a reaction from all four. “Let’em come.” After putting the revolver back into the bag and shoving it into the drawer, he had trouble breathing. During the effort to show his revolver he’d dislodged his oxygen tubes. Niki got the tubes back in and rubbed his shoulder.

  “Thank you…thank you.”

  “No problem. My dad got upset when I asked about his time at camp.”

  She waited, and finally Decken began speaking again. “The Barracks Three boys had no choice. They defended themselves. Afterwards they stashed something. A note, the Four Horsemen said. A note hidden at the fire tower so someday the truth’ll come out. They called it the Rose Buckles cache.

  “It’s not in the tower. They had to renovate that thing for wood rot. What they did is…When you passed through Green River did you see Castle Rock?”

  “We did,” said Niki.

  “What the boys did, they made a replica of Castle Rock about 200 paces southeast of the tower. It’s a pretty big. Took the whole barracks to move the rock to a spot on a firm ledge. They planted trees around it. So, there’s this note, and maybe something else, underneath a Castle Rock replica at Ute Mountain Fire Tower. After the war, when I was feeling my oats one night, and being they called it a cache, I tried to look under it. But you’d need a front loader. I began worrying it was called the Rose Buckles cache and…”

  Decken stared at Niki with tears in his eyes. “What makes me feel bad is, I promised I’d keep their secret. But by now, I figure they’re all dead.”

  They left the Mountain View Care Center the way they’d come in. Niki and Lazlo through the garden, Mariya and Janos along the fence. Heading back north on 191 toward Ute Mountain with Mariya and Janos again lying on
the back floor, all four wondered why there was no sign of the Class C with the Russians on board. As they began the climb into the mountains, Mariya spoke from the back.

  “I thought I would have to show him the hair from Marta’s jewelry box. I’ve carried it with me all the way from Kiev. The way he glanced at me when he told of the hair—“

  Janos interrupted. “Since town there’s been a black pickup truck. At first far back, now closer.”

  Niki drove faster, but slowed when they heard sirens. She pulled to the side for a State Police car followed by an ambulance.

  “The pickup pulled over, but is behind again,” said Janos. “It’s large with double rear wheels. It passed others; now there are only two cars separating us.”

  “You have your pistol from the Russians ready?” asked Lazlo.

  “Yes. Only a driver in the truck,” said Janos. “A man. He tries to see ahead. He had a chance to pass but did not.”

  The Lincoln Navigator on the road to Vernal pulled in among flashing emergency vehicle lights. After confronting the local sheriff at the marina, Finley let Jennifer ask about the torn away guardrail while he watched for Niki Gianakos’ red Caravan. Gaper slowdown southbound and northbound, an officer waving traffic to keep moving. A red Caravan went by going south, but didn’t have the Michigan tag Jacobson provided.

  “It’s a long way down,” said Jennifer when she returned. “You can barely make out the wreckage. A motor home torn to shreds. Heard them radio in. No seatbelts. Two men onboard sliced and diced by framework. New Jersey plate. They’re checking with Jersey DMV because no IDs were found. This fits. I overheard the woman at the marina tell the sheriff about two guys in a motor home before he ran us off. Trouble is, Jacobson said the Ukrainians meeting up with Niki Gianakos and Lazlo Horvath are a man and woman, not two men. ”

  “What now?”

  “Continue down to Vernal. We can’t watch any backs here.”

  “Wait. There’s the Caravan heading north, Michigan tag. And that pickup, the guy driving is the one from the motel.”

  Jennifer nosed the Navigator out, blocking southbound traffic. Eventually, with a perturbed look, the officer directing traffic let her into the northbound lane.

  Lazlo held the Flaming Gorge map with Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower marked. When possible Niki overtook cars. Janos watched the pickup out the back window. Niki took Route 44 toward Manila and the fire tower, only one car between the pickup and the Caravan.

  “We can’t go to the fire tower with him behind us,” said Niki.

  Lazlo studied the map. “The turn is just ahead. Janos, see if he turns or hesitates. We need to know if he knows what Decken MaCade told us. It’s called the Sheep Creek Geological Loop. There’s the sign!”

  “Wait!” shouted Janos. “The white Lincoln Navigator. It’s behind the pickup.”

  “Now what?” asked Niki.

  “We can’t stop,” said Lazlo.

  Mariya sat up on the floor, looking out the side window. “It’s strange. I see distant rock the color of the hair from Dr. Marta’s jewelry box. Hair taken to Ukraine and now back here.”

  “The fire tower’s on the scenic loop,” said Niki. “Should we double back?”

  Mariya held onto Niki’s seatback. “The old man said the camp was on Sheep Creek. On the way down I saw a sign for campgrounds.”

  “There’s the creek bridge,” said Niki.

  “We’re around a bend,” said Janos, kneeling up in back. “Invisible for the moment.”

  “There’s a campground!” shouted Mariya.

  Niki hit the brakes. “No pickup in my mirror. Hang on!”

  “All clear!” shouted Janos. “Get away from the road!”

  The Caravan leaned dangerously, its tires squealing.

  “You did it!” shouted Janos. “The pickup and Navigator went past!”

  “What now?” asked Mariya.

  Lazlo looked to Niki, then back to Mariya and Janos. “The map shows the Uinta Fault. We’ve fallen into the Earth. It’s near sunset. The man in the pickup knows more. The fire tower can wait. We should return to Decken MaCade.”

  When the road straightened, Guzzo knew he’d lost the Caravan. The white Navigator still on his tail.

  Final assignment. Failure not an option. Eventually he’d find Niki Gianakos and Lazlo Horvath in their red Caravan. For now, he needed to deal with the pair in the white Navigator.

  Motorcycles at an overlook on the left. He cut across and stopped, shut off the engine, got out, and heard the squeal of brakes as the Navigator pulled to the side in the distance, dust cloud emerging from the blind corner. He climbed a boulder and saw the Navigator waiting, parked in canyon shadow, the double lenses of binoculars glaring.

  Guzzo walked back to four motorcyclists, Texas tags, riders watching the sunset. Two couples in their 60s cradling helmets.

  “Beautiful sunset,” said Guzzo.

  “One of Our Lord’s wonders,” said a woman.

  “Traveling light?”

  “Left our gear at the Manila motel. Our truck and trailer’s there. You don’t think I’d ride that thing from Texas.”

  One of the men said, “Doug and I are riding down to Vernal tomorrow. You know any good places to overnight?”

  “Best Western,” said Guzzo, recalling he and Cory Minkus having a beer.

  In minutes the sun was down and mountain shadows became one large shadow. The bikers mounted up, started their V-twin Harleys, and headed north back to Manila.

  Guzzo inspected the drop-off. He needed to find the Caravan, but rid himself of the tail. The Caravan would stop in Manila. If he didn’t find it there, he’d go to the marina. If not there, Green River.

  He trotted along the overlook and found guardrail supports of old wood. North around the switchback where the Harleys disappeared, car headlights appeared. He counted off seconds to see how long it took the car to circle the cliffs and reach the overlook. He recalled having timed Marta Voronko’s father’s car in Ukraine. After the car passed, he climbed into the pickup, buckled his shoulder belt securely, and sped north to the next switchback. Once there he caught a glimpse of the Navigator’s headlights. They’d already begun moving. He spun the pickup around, cut the headlights, and sped back, throttle to the floor.

  After sunset it darkened quickly. Jennifer drove into the canyon opening. “We’d better not lose him.”

  Finley lowered the binoculars. “Not so fast or he’ll spot us at the next overlook.”

  Jennifer: “At that accident, when you had signal, Jacobson say anything about this guy?”

  Finley: “Texts through a Green River tower from phones in Chicago. He’s on the job.”

  Jennifer: “A hit or follow?”

  Finley: “Jacobson’s not sure.”

  Jennifer glanced toward Finley. The glow of dash lights flickered in her eyes.

  Finley smiled back, retrieving an image of Jennifer in her two-piece and wondering where they’d stay tonight and if there’d be a hot tub. He imagined elderly couples staring at the mixed race couple in the tub. He took a sip of iced tea and replaced his cup in the holder. Later.

  The road needled between huge boulders ahead of the overlook where the motorcyclists had been. When Jennifer rounded the curve the full length of the overlook came into view. The pickup that shouldn’t have been there was there, not facing away or toward them. Lights off, it came across the road from the right shoulder, perpendicular.

  Nowhere to go. The pickup with its huge bumper T-boned the Navigator and shoved it sideways, wailing and leaning, smashing into and over the guardrail. Everything spilled out of cup holders and the center console. Jennifer screamed Finley’s name and reached out to grasp his hand as the Navigator went end over end down the cliff face. Two brains did their best—quick fleeting thoughts of childhood, high school, college, academy grad
uation, gun range training, last night at the motel—trying to make sense of life.

  Although the Navigator was heavy, he’d plowed into its side. The only damage to the pickup was the bull bar bent at the frame connections. He pulled alongside the torn guardrail, blocking it should anyone pass. Simply a guy admiring the red sky. Both headlights and taillights worked; no obvious electrical damage. He left the 350 running.

  He retrieved night vision binoculars from his equipment bag, stooped down between the pickup and the sheared guardrail. The Navigator’s lights were out. It was on its side, no fire. At first no movement, but then a man squeezed through a broken rear side window, lay across the door a moment, then slid off and limped backwards, stumbling to the ground.

  Both in the Navigator needed to be dead, especially the young man who’d make the connection to this morning’s chance meeting with the smiling gentleman at breakfast.

  “Motel toasters are the slowest in the world.”

  “You travel a lot?”

  “A requirement of the service.”

  Guzzo imagined himself smiling. Bond, James Bond.

  The man sat up. Guzzo scanned the surrounding canyon walls, removed his automatic from his shoulder holster, along with its silencer. When the man stood and turned back toward the wreck, Guzzo let the binoculars hang on their strap, braced against the remaining guardrail, and fired a single shot to the lower kidney. When he studied the man lying on the ground with the night vision binoculars he saw enough blood to assure him the man would bleed out. Below the Navigator on the driver’s side there was now enough blood to assure him the trapped woman would also bleed out.

  After putting everything away he stood at the 350’s open window. The temperature gauge read normal and he smelled nothing unusual as it idled. At first he looked north, wondering where he might come across the red Caravan. Years of assignments coming to an end, Pescatore speaking of closure. Back in Vernal the red Caravan had exited a nursing home parking lot.