Sacrifice

by Michael Arches

  I looked up at the sun. It was late afternoon. This was our last chance to find Sandy before the bloody ceremony we thought would start at six. Our time was running out, and more importantly, so was hers.

  The dappled light filtering through the bare aspens made it hard to see anything above the snow. But something glistened near my feet, like a spider’s silken thread. I almost walked through it. My voice went up an octave. “Whoa! Got something.”

  I bent over to get a closer look. “Looks like ultralight fishing line.”

  “Oh, I see it now,” Trace said. He paused for a moment. “It runs over to what looks like a snow-covered rock. Shit, could be a disguised bomb.”

  A zing shot through me. I remembered being trapped in a smoldering Humvee that’d triggered a roadside bomb. Trace grinned at me like he enjoyed outwitting assholes. I didn’t see the humor in the situation.

  He motioned for the vehicles behind us to stop. “We can step over the tripwire and keep going. What do you think?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “The line’s only six inches off the ground in the middle of the driveway.”

  We returned to the others and explained the situation. Everyone was willing to keep going, assuming we didn’t discover another booby trap. The dog would have to stay behind.

  Trace and I took the point again. I gave up my worry about being paranoid. We slowly headed up the access road to the house. No more surprises.

  The place needed a paint job and a new roof. Kirkpatrick certainly wasn’t keeping up with the other local doctors. I knocked on the front door and wasn’t surprised when I got no response. We spread out to check for a way in. The doors and windows were locked.

  From all appearances, Kirkpatrick never intended to come back. I wondered whether he’d left Sandra there to die. Or was she already dead?

  We could get a warrant based on the probable bomb next to the driveway, but no time for legal shenanigans. I punched out a window looking out onto the porch with the butt of my service revolver and unlatched it. Linda was the nimblest of us and crawled inside to unlock the front door.

  Once we all entered, we fanned out and searched for the missing woman.

  Within ten minutes, we were sure she wasn’t here. And it was also obvious that Kirkpatrick had taken everything he really wanted.

  We’d struck out again. I threw a copy of a book he’d left behind against a wall. “What the fuck do we do now?”

  Nobody offered an answer to that question.

  -o-o-o-

  On the way out, we discussed what to do about the likely unexploded bomb. We all agreed we couldn’t leave it as it was, and we were out in the middle of nowhere. Triggering it wouldn’t risk causing damage or injury to neighbors.

  A few snowflakes began to fall. The storm was moving in. That would slow our return to town even more.

  Manny came up with a solution. “I’ve got a fishing rod in the back of my SUV, for the slow days. It has at least seventy-five yards of line on it. We could stretch it out and connect it to the tripwire. One good yank, and boom. Problem solved.”

  Nobody had any better ideas, and we were all wearing body armor. Plus, we were running out of time. “Let’s do it then get the hell out of here. We need to get back to the office and huddle with Randy to come up with a Hail Mary plan.”

  We moved the vehicles back to the gate, and I made sure my SUV’s windows were completely rolled up to minimize the explosion for the hound. He hated loud noises.

  Manny’s fishing pole already had a spinner with a treble hook attached to the end of the line. He stood near the tripwire while I stretched his fishing line out as far as it would go. Then came the tricky part.

  With most of the line resting on the ground, Manny gently looped his fishing line over the tripwire and hooked his spinner to his line. That way, there was no tension on the tripwire.

  I still held my breath until he hustled back to me. The others went back to the vehicles. Manny and I turned our backs, and he gave the rod a good yank.

  BOOM!

  The concussion almost knocked us onto our faces, even from that far away. The blast would’ve obliterated any vehicle up close.

  “How did a goddamned anesthesiologist get a hold of that much explosive?” I asked.

  Nobody could say, and Sandy’s time kept running out.

  As we raced back to the office, I promised myself to make sure Kirkpatrick paid for trying to blow us all up.

  Chapter 18

  On the way, I felt every bit as sick and useless as I had after Viceroy shot Muriel Clayton. Despite all of us working so hard, we’d failed again. Maybe Hal and Carol were right—I needed to resign. Not up to the job.

  As soon as we got close enough to town for my phone to find a cell signal, I called Randy. “We struck out. No Sandy, and no clues as to where she might be.”

  “Damn,” he said. “I’m still at the hospital. Outside Leo’s private room. His mama and Phyllis have been inside for at least fifteen minutes. No idea whether they’re making progress, but they’re our last chance. Come here, all of you.”

  -o-o-o-

  By the time we arrived at Aspen Valley Hospital, it was snowing like hell. The temperature was barely above zero. We walked into the building together, a sullen and sluggish group of losers.

  Except for Boomer. He was as happy as ever.

  The receptionist told us where we could find Leo, and we took the elevator up. She gave my mutt the evil eye, but I pointed at the Police Dog designation on his vest. Plus, we had guns and badges. She didn’t.

  We found Randy pacing in the hallway.

  “Any progress?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “They’ve been in there for over a half-hour now. What the fuck are they talking about? A vacation in the Caribbean?”

  As usual, Randy’s question was a damned good one. Most of my crew collapsed in those uncomfortable chairs hospitals love. I paced, too, but not alongside Randy. We both needed space to think.

  But I didn’t come up with any plan that made a lick of sense. Everything depended on Maria and Phyllis.

  -o-o-o-

  The door to Leo’s room opened, and Sandy’s mom came out alone. Her cheeks were stained with tears. I checked my phone. It was 4:03 p.m.

  With a pale face she said, “Whatever you do, never, ever get on the wrong side of Maria Salieri. With a quiet voice, she pulled apart her son’s psyche, like a chef deboning a chicken with the skin on. He’s in there bawling like a baby, but no time for details now. Sandy is being held at the Champion Mine. He spelled the name for me, so I’m sure I got it right. The satanic cult’s leader is Melody Wilcox. Is any of this helpful?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I have a general recollection of where the mine is, and I know Melody.” Still, I found it hard to believe she was involved. She seemed like a reasonable human being when I’d dealt with her at her bakery.

  “At least, now we know where to go,” Randy said. “I’ve visited that mine, but it’s been eight years or more. Don’t worry; we’ll find it again. What else did you hear, Phyllis, that’s most important?”

  She rubbed her temples for a moment. “N-nothing more about Sandy. He wouldn’t even use her name. Wilcox is apparently completely broke. Some bank is foreclosing. Devil is supposed to be helping her.”

  “What about your daughter’s diabetes?” I asked.

  “He didn’t know or care. The monster said, ‘Look, she’s a sacrifice. If she’s in a coma, that makes her easier to handle.’”

  Leo was despicable, but time was short. “Folks, let’s go!”

  We thanked Phyllis, but she seemed to be shell-shocked. Way too much stress.

  As I led them away, she said, “Oh, one more thing. Salieri says they have a hellhound.”

  That froze me in my tracks. “What?”

  “A giant black demonic canine. He’s vicious. Almost forgot to tell you.”

  Randy was c
losest to her. He put his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll deal with the damned monsters, all of ‘em. And we’ll call you as soon as we can. In the meantime, pray.”

  She made the sign of the cross, and with a hitch in her voice, said, “Go with God.”

  On the way downstairs, I remembered about the insulin pump. Asked Linda, “Have you got what you need for Sandy’s diabetes?”

  She gave me a thumbs up. “The right refill, plus sugar tablets, and a dose of glucagon. Jesus, I hope we get to her in time.”

  -o-o-o-

  At 4:16 p.m., we left the hospital. I pulled out my phone. “There’s a slight chance we can find someone from the Forest Service who knows exactly where the mine is.”

  I dialed the local district ranger’s office. But it was the week before Christmas. Most of the Feds seemed to spend the entire month of December on vacation.

  Even so, someone answered. One of their law enforcement officers. I briefly explained our emergency.

  “I haven’t heard of that mine yet,” he said. “But I just transferred here from Missoula. DJ Trujillo is our minerals guy. He’ll know where it is, but he’s out until after the first. Down in Miami.”

  “Any way for you to get a hold of him?” I asked. “We need to reach the mine ASAP.”

  “I have an emergency contact number. I’ll call him and ask him to call you directly.”

  Christmas week was the worst possible time to have an emergency. That was for damned sure. “Thanks so much for contacting him. We’ll handle the rest here.” He didn’t volunteer to come.

  After I hung up, I said to the others, “We can’t wait. I’m pretty sure it’s a little west of the road to the Maroon Bells. We should head that way. If DJ doesn’t call, we’ll have to find it on our own.”

  -o-o-o-

  Skip drove Boomer and I toward the road that followed Maroon Creek up to the world-famous bells. Randy and Linda followed in his vehicle. Manny brought his two cops in his SUV. It was snowing harder than ever. We had our lights flashing, but I doubted anyone twenty feet away could see us.

  My recollection was that the Champion Mine was west of Maroon Creek and on the north side of Willow Creek. For the moment, we still had a cell signal. That was because we were driving in the valley between the Aspen Highlands and Buttermilk ski areas.

  When we reached the spot where I remembered the turnoff, more trouble. Someone was building a row of fucking townhouses right where the road should be. I jumped out of Skip’s vehicle into the blizzard and dashed back to Randy. Didn’t put all my winter gear on because I hoped to be back in my SUV soon. Almost fell on my ass on the slippery asphalt.

  He rolled down his window partway.

  “Is this where the road used to be?” I asked. I’d driven up and down this way dozens of times, but hadn’t paid attention. Somebody was always building something in this area.

  “Sure is, shit!” he said. “You feel like dashing across the construction site and seeing if you can find the damned road?”

  “Without help from the Forest Service guy, I don’t have a choice.”

  I pulled my black parka out of the back of the vehicle Skip was driving. The parka’s hood was particularly large so it would fit over my helmet. And put on my ski gloves. The snow blew straight into my face, stinging it until it became numb.

  The construction site had lots of shit lying around, and I fell twice as I maneuvered through the construction area to the back of the lot. Then, I ran into a barbed wire fence. Hoping that the armored pants would protect me, I straddled it and promptly lost my balance and flopped into a ditch on my face. While I was down there, I brushed the snow away and found the edge of the gravel road.

  I stood and used my arm to motion that I was heading north looking for the new junction with Maroon Creek Road. The snow was so thick I doubted anyone could see me.

  Sure enough, someone had rerouted the road a quarter mile farther north than the old turnoff. When I got close to the main road, I called Skip and told him where to find me.

  I shook the snow off of me as best I could before I piled into the front passenger seat again. A moment later, DJ called me.

  “I hear you’re looking for the Champion Mine. I can tell you how to get there, but are you sure that’s the right place?”

  “Thanks so much for your help,” I said. “That’s the name we were given. Our source is true vermin, though. It’s a hostage situation, and this is our only clue.”

  “Gotcha. The only reason I’m skeptical is that I don’t think anybody can get close to the mine, much less in it. Nobody plows that road, and it has to have two feet of snow on it by now.”

  “We’re on it,” I said. “About a quarter-mile in from Maroon Creek Road. It’s only one lane wide, but somebody did plow it.”

  “Strange, but there are too many weirdos in our area to count. Pretty soon, that road is going to turn steep. And there’s a gate. Should be locked.”

  I didn’t know how much longer my cellphone would have a signal, so I asked the big question, “If someone can get up there, how hard would it be for them to get inside the mine?”

  “Most of the adit portals collapsed decades ago,” he said. “The main haulage way is definitely closed, and there is a huge pool of water backed up behind it. Can’t get into those workings without scuba gear. There are four other openings then, at higher levels, most of which have caved in. About five years ago, we closed the only remaining open portal. It’s on the Four Hundred Level, a hundred vertical feet up from the main staging area which is at the Five Hundred Level. The door’s lock system was specifically designed to make it extra-hard to break in. Listen, if they’re there, I think it’s more likely the criminals are in the cabin near the main mine entrance. The roof on that structure is decent and keeps the weather out. Plus, it has a wood-burning stove.”

  I hoped he was right because it would be a lot easier to find our prey at the cabin, but I had to get whatever other information I could from him quickly. “Can you tell me where to find the various portals?”

  “I’ll do you one better. Go to the miner’s cabin. You’ll have to break in, but when I was last there in late July, a detailed mine map was pinned to one wall. It’ll show you the locations much better than I can explain over the phone. By the way, I do check it every year to make sure all of the openings remain closed, but some people love to sneak underground. It’s dangerous as hell, and I guess that’s the attraction.”

  I felt a sense of foreboding. The last time I’d been near that mine, I was working on a search and rescue team looking for a lost boy. That was seven years ago, before Boomer. We’d found the boy, but not alive. Ever since then, I’d felt in my bones that the whole damned area was jinxed.

  We reached a closed metal gate, and I hopped out to see what we’d need to get in. The answer was nothing. An unlocked padlock hung from the gate latch. I swung the gate wide and let our three vehicles through before closing it again.

  It was about five p.m., and some of the participants in the ceremony might not have arrived yet. I wanted to make sure they kept coming. We had to catch the entire ring of Devil worshipers. I’d had enough of their shit forevermore.

  Chapter 19

  DJ stayed on the line. He told me how the Champion had been quite the deal in its day, producing three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of silver. That ended more than a century ago. No wonder this nasty little Jeep trail was barely wide enough for our full-sized SUVs.

  I asked DJ where the cult might try to hold a ceremony, but I lost my signal before he responded.

  We continued to snake along the mountainside, heading upward for what seemed like miles. The minutes were melting away, but Skip was driving as fast as he could on this rough, narrow track climbing into the clouds.

  We eventually rounded the turn that revealed a large flat area covered with snow. Above it, the steep hillside extended up again. The outlines of several roads zigzagged up the almost vertical
mountainside. This was a far bigger operation than the puny little mine on my property.

  I scanned the area carefully. If we were going to face armed resistance, this was an obvious spot to attack us. “Better turn off the flashing lights. Can you see anybody up ahead?”

  “Not yet,” Randy said. “I can barely make out the outlines of a couple of buildings off to the left. Maybe they’re hiding there, waiting for us to get closer.”

  We crept forward, rolling through dips and bouncing over buried debris. Our headlights lit up the ground in front of us, and I looked hard for any signs of life. Didn’t see a soul. We couldn’t drive in a straight line because of drums and old equipment sticking out of the snow, but we found a route that led us to the cabin DJ had mentioned.

  The log building sat about twenty yards from the collapsed main portal. Next to it, a much larger wooden structure leaned over precariously. That had probably once housed a mill used to concentrate the mine’s ore.

  Skip drove toward the cabin. Again, I looked for any sign of movement that would signal an ambush. As we got closer, I noticed a Wrangler and a full-sized pickup with a blade on the front that were parked behind the cabin. Both were empty.

  The Wrangler was covered with an inch of snow, and the pickup was covered with at least three times as much. It seemed that the truck had been parked there quite a while, but the Wrangler had arrived more recently.

  A thrill of excitement ran through me. We were finally hot on their trail.

  We drove around the cabin and the mill building once but couldn’t see anyone. No lights in the cabin. I hoped the assholes were already inside the mine where they couldn’t see us. They had to be up to no good. I couldn’t imagine any innocent reason for someone to drive up here on a brutally cold and snowy night. The thermometer reading on our SUV’s display said it was minus five degrees Fahrenheit outside. The wind was howling, cutting visibility even more.