Red Mountain Page 3

  They stepped off the path and climbed up to a graveled parking lot. There were only a few cars left, most likely owned by the same joggers who’d been circling the reservoir with them. He noticed a small grove of trees on a hill just above the parking lot. He decided to go up there and see what he could find.

  They waded up through a field of yellow grass with several old cherry trees. The dark limbs of the trees were gnarled and covered with small bumps. Robert was always amazed how such arthritic looking branches could produce such striking blossoms in the spring.

  It had been below trees just like these where he’d proposed to Peggy. Tiny fragrant white and pink flowers had clung to her hair like a bridal veil. A few even got pasted to her cheeks after they’d become wet with tears. Robert had collected his share as well…

  He stood below the trees and watched as one of the soaked joggers got into his car and drove away. From up here he had a good view of the reservoir and the rain-blurred city stretching beyond.

  Somewhere out there is a man making preparations to kill you. A man you’ve never met…

  Robert found a deep ragged hole in one of the trees. Damp, and full of cobwebs. At one time the tree had lost a limb and it had tried to heal over, until the squirrels found it to be a useful place to store their cache.

  Once he was satisfied no one was watching, he shoved the plastic-wrapped gun inside. He and Nugget then climbed up through the tall grass to another trail which fed back into the woods. Maybe the gun would come in handy. He had no idea if it would. But at least it was there if he needed it…

  Later, Nugget smelled a rabbit and forced him to trot along behind her.

  CHAPTER 6

  By the following afternoon the storm had been long forgotten. The sky was intensely blue, and hot sunlight had already baked the mud into a cracked skin. Horned toad lizards hunted for ants, while buzzards made big lazy circles in the thermals above.

  Sheriff Underwood felt like crap.

  He and Deputy Logan had been riding horseback since daybreak. They’d been out settling a ranching dispute ten miles to the north when word arrived that a vigilante party was seen headed for the Horn farm the afternoon before. Not that anyone in town had bothered trying to stop the three men and boy from their crazy quest to do god knows what. It was only later, when they hadn’t returned home to their beds that caused their families to become worried to the point of calling on him for help.

  Something had boiled over, and Underwood hadn’t been around to simmer things back down. He suspected the timing wasn’t entirely coincidental with him being away. The men had been planning this for some time, and they’d managed to keep the festering anger to themselves.

  Underwood, who’d been county Sheriff for nearly twenty years, knew all four of the party well. He’d recently spoken to the boy a week earlier about paying him to white wash the outside of the jailhouse. Having been an orphan himself at a young age, Underwood and the kid hit it off right away. Unfortunately, the kid’s uncle wasn’t what you would call an ideal role model. He wasn’t a bad character though. No, the problem with Arvin was just he didn’t enforce a whole lot of discipline under his roof. Underwood, in his own way, had tried his best to gently steer the kid whenever he could.

  When they got the news, Underwood and his partner had only enough time to heat up a plate of chili and some coffee before breaking camp. Now Logan’s chili was doing a war dance on Underwood’s stomach, and riding a horse thirty miles wasn’t helping matters. He couldn’t figure out what the hell his deputy must have done to it. His guts felt as if they’d been packed with gunpowder.

  Logan’s cooking had frequently been an issue between the two men, and Underwood hadn’t thought of a delicate way in which to bring it up again. For a man who’d been tempered by several hard years in the army, Logan’s only soft spot left had been an overblown pride in his culinary skills.

  As they rode, Underwood released a notch on his belt, making himself feel more comfortable. He longed to stretch out on his blanket and take a nap under a tree. Better yet, he would’ve liked to have rested his head on his wife’s lap and sip lemonade.

  Face it. You’re just getting too old for this crap...

  “Horses,” Logan half-whispered.

  Underwood shaded his eyes and squinted. He saw four palominos grazing on a patch of grass near a trickle spring. On their backs sat empty saddles.

  Where were the riders?

  It was virtually flat for miles in any given direction. Unless the party had fallen into a hole, they should have seen them by now, and Underwood hadn’t heard of any abandoned gold mines out in this area.

  As soon as they reached the horses, Underwood dismounted and walked slowly up to them, talking softly and trying to keep them from getting spooked. They were relatively cool to his touch, and didn’t appear to be terribly nervous. He examined the saddles and recognized the initials of some of the vigilantes engraved on them.

  You stupid sons a bitches. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourselves in?

  CHAPTER 7

  Several yards in front of him Logan was hunched over with the scorching sunlight behind him, staring at something. He slowly raised his head and motioned the sheriff over. Underwood thought he looked like a man who’d just stared death in the face. A swarm of black flies smudged an aura around Logan’s body as he stood waiting, his face cast in blue shadow.

  A stiff breeze kicked past, and Underwood found himself being assaulted by the stench of soured meat spiced with juniper, the perfect buzzard aphrodisiac. The smell of death…

  He covered his nose and forced himself to move forward on resisting legs.

  The body was lying face down. Logan moved aside while Underwood carefully rolled it over and gasped. Grinning up at him was Hemmel’s enormous white skull. All the flesh had been stripped away, leaving behind only the thick black hair on his head and his long peppery beard. Ants dribbled from his empty eye sockets.

  Underwood fell back a few steps. His intestines were roiling like an angry nest of snakes. Before he could think of doing anything else, he had to find a place to relieve himself. He raised his hand silently before turning and heading for a bit of privacy. Logan bit off a plug of tobacco and waited.

  By late afternoon they found the others spread out across the high desert plain. The hardest part for Underwood was seeing Stu hadn’t been spared.

  “Who in God’s name would do this to a boy?” he asked.

  “Horn,” Logan said without hesitation.

  Underwood turned to his partner. Logan’s soldier-worn eyes betrayed no emotion, not even for the faceless boy, a boy who should have never been out tagging along with a group of troublemakers.

  Buzzards screeched above the mutilated bodies still lying where they’d found them. Underwood looked away from the deputy and stared into the distance, wishing at that moment he was with less stoic company. Suddenly he let out a sharp groan, as if he’d been sucker punched in the stomach.

  Glimmering behind the wall of a heat mirage, Jared Horn’s farmhouse loomed before them. It was a trick the desert sometimes played. Waves of heat acted like mirrors, bouncing things around—even sometimes projecting the fading images of the dead or dying. And it always took you by surprise when it happened.

  Underwood rubbed his eyes, looked again and the image was gone. He knew the Horn ranch was still at least an hour’s ride away. If Logan hadn’t been with him, Underwood might have been tempted to turn away, go back to his house and weep in the dark and drink his whiskey. Anything to shed the horrific images that now stuck in his mind and would undoubtedly scar.

  CHAPTER 8

  Robert had never wanted to take over the family business, but that’s precisely what had happened.

  Once he’d finished high school, he left Portland for a small liberal arts college in upstate New York on a scholarship, to the surprise of everyone. The relatively short period far from home provided some of the most pleasurable moments he’d ever had away on his
own. Although his father failed to see any practical use for the pursuit of art and literature, Robert had finally felt free to explore without feeling like someone was constantly looking over his shoulder.

  Not long after he’d started attending classes, he began to imagine himself as a beggar who’d accidentally found an opened door to a gigantic banquet. Dizzy with a real hunger for knowledge, he began filling his pockets and devouring as much as he could. The fear that it wouldn’t last was always lurking in the back of his mind. Instead of spending his evenings handing his father tools in a cold garage after school, he found himself nestled next to a fireplace at the student union, engaged in exciting conversations.

  Life seemed so ripe with possibilities, eager to let him pass through its great doors.

  And then everything changed…

  One night during his second fall semester, after he’d kissed a pretty girl on the library steps and made a date to see her again, his mother called, hysterical. Father was in the hospital. He’d had a stroke. The family desperately needed him to come home and manage the garage. Only Robert understood the way things had to be done.

  Unlike some of the snobby rich kids who never had to worry about issues like money, Robert knew he had no choice but to drop out and return home. He’d felt humiliated, suicidal. On the plane home he flashed some fake i.d. at the stewardess and proceeded to drink heavily while staring vacantly at the landscape below. In a hopeful haze he convinced himself he’d return as soon as possible. He even made a promise to himself, that every spare moment he had alone he’d do something to keep his mind alive.

  One or two years won’t matter, he’d convinced himself. You’re still young. You’ll show them all you can beat this crappy luck.

  Fast-forward twenty years.

  Still waiting to show them, pal?

  To Robert, those two years back in New York seemed more like something he’d dreamed up one day while putting in long hours at the garage. By the time his father returned to work, the idea of going back to college had become one of many dead fantasies still clinging to the margins of his mind. He’d changed so much by then…

  ****

  Nugget was still curled up asleep when Robert slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of Crain’s Body Repair. He was surprised, since she usually got excited when he took her to the shop, for there was always a dependable supply of Milk Bones in his office. A dog always remembers these things, if she remembers anything at all.

  Ben, who was hunched over a badly crunched Honda, glanced up and waved at Robert as he rolled into his usual spot. Ben had worked for the Crain family since before Robert was born, and he lived in a small trailer behind the garage. Both of his parents had died in a tragic car crash on Christmas Eve. A teenager at the time, Ben had been riding in the back seat and had suffered some brain damage due to a severe head injury. He’d been working part time for the garage for almost a year when the accident had occurred. Regardless of the many painful months it took for him to regain his skills, Robert’s father stood behind him, for Ben had shown great talent for resurrecting damaged car bodies.

  It was probably the one act Robert’s father was most proud of. Keeping Ben got him a lot of mileage in the community. But on the day that tank went dry, Frank Crain’s house of cards finally began to collapse piece by illusory piece, until he no longer resembled the man he wanted everyone to believe he was.

  Nugget snapped awake and was now panting anxiously to be let out of the cab, her eyes darting in every direction.

  “Hey Ben,” Robert said as he and Nugget climbed out of the truck. Ben stared at him for a moment, and Robert could tell he sensed something deeper was wrong, that it didn’t have anything to do with his recent car accident. Ben might have been slow at many things, but very little ever escaped his gaze when it came to damaged cars or hidden emotions.

  Robert simply stared back, not knowing what to say. He was relieved when Nugget wandered over to greet Ben, her tail swooshing happily back and forth.

  “Jesus, Bobby. What happened to your face?”

  “I got it from the car accident last night. Doctor says it’s going to be really ugly for awhile, may even get worse.”

  Ben wiped his hands with a greasy rag before reaching out and patting Nugget on the head. “You better put ice on it.”

  “I will.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Still hurts.”

  “Well if I was your boss I’d tell you to stay home. You shouldn’t be out running around in your condition.”

  “I know. But I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”

  “Couldn’t it wait another day or two?”

  “No. I’ve got to write some checks and get them in the mail, stuff like that.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was also wondering if you could do me a big favor and watch Nugget for me tonight.”

  Ben’s eyes widened a little. “Sure. Are you taking the family somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” Robert lied. “We’re going over to my mother’s tonight for dinner. Her new husband doesn’t like dogs very much.”

  “Well I’d be honored.”

  “Great. I’ve got some canned food for her in the break room.” Robert smiled and turned to let Ben get back to work on the Honda.

  “By the way, what should I tell Will? He’s been looking for you, said he’s been trying to call.”

  Will was Robert’s best friend and had been responsible for introducing Robert to Peggy. They’d lived through a lot of things together, and if you added them all up they could have easily filled several lifetimes. He’d felt guilty for just watching Will’s number come up on the caller i.d. and not picking up. But he couldn’t take the chance of calling him back right now—not until he figured out what the hell was going on. He knew from experience that Will possessed an even superior bullshit meter than Ben’s.

  “Tell him I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

  “Can do,” Ben said. He wandered back to the crumpled Honda.

  Nugget followed Robert to his office, where she crawled onto an old couch and went to sleep. Robert quietly took care of what things he needed to and later tiptoed out of the office. Nugget had heard him leave the room, but she hadn’t raised her head until he’d started the truck. When she realized what was happening, she flew off the couch and skidded across the polished linoleum to catch him before he drove away. But the back door wasn’t propped open as usual—Robert had shut it on his way out. Nugget stood up on her hind legs and scratched at the door with her front paws and whined as the sound of the truck drifted away.

  Robert felt terrible about ditching her, but what could he do? Bringing her to the park with him tonight was too risky. She was safer with Ben. If he never returned, Ben would certainly take care of her.

  He drove home and spent the next several hours cleaning and straightening the house. At the moment it felt like the only right thing to do. His family would be coming home soon and he didn’t want any horrible reminders of what had happened. It would also give him a chance to take some kind of inventory.

  The inside of the house looked like a tornado had torn through. Robert gathered up the unbroken things and placed them back where they belonged. Next came the many items ruined beyond repair, and he stuffed them inside two plastic garbage bags and set them in the garage.

  Once finished, he discovered that very few items were actually missing. What was missing made no sense. The photo albums and genealogy book he’d kept stored in a glass cabinet were gone. Also, the old family portraits he’d had framed after his father’s death—grainy pictures going as far back as the turn of the last century—had vanished from the walls.

  Why?

  He took a hot shower and tried to loosen the knots in his back and shoulder muscles. In less than three hours he would be in a fight for his life, for his family’s life. If he survived, then maybe the men behind this would start to reveal why they were doing this, why they’d taken such an interest i
n his family history.

  It’s really about two families, isn’t it? There’s another father out there just like me, right now, with his own family to protect. What gives you the right to survive and not him?

  CHAPTER 9

  Robert had taken his share of licks from schoolyard bullies, but by the time he went to high school he’d surpassed most of them in size and strength. He lifted weights and ran during lunch breaks. There was no time in his life for things like football and track. His father needed him at the shop, had refused to hire on another full time employee when he could have his son do it for nearly nothing. The few precious hours he had left in the evenings were spent on studying. Sometimes he’d try painting landscapes with oils, but never seemed able to finish anything he was proud of.

  Except for times when he found himself having to protect someone, Robert was mostly left alone by the hot heads and fight-pickers in high school. He was good at avoiding trouble, knew when it was time to give others a wide berth. It wasn’t until years later—when his father came back to work after his stroke—that violent forces came knocking…

  He wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. His reflection caused him to gasp. The bruise on the left side of his face was dark and rubbery. He put some antibacterial cream on his cuts, dressed a gash on his knee with a fresh bandage.

  While changing into clean clothes, he became aware of a strange disconnected feeling. How did he really know if he wasn’t still in the hospital? What if the car accident had been much worse? Could I actually be in a coma right now?

  He wondered if it were possible that he’d imagined the break-in, that his subconscious mind might have concocted the entire kidnapping scenario, even replaced the doctors who were trying to save him with men in black ski masks…

  He sat still on the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of his own blood humming in his ears. At the moment he felt as if he were caught between two competing realities.