by Chris Pike
Stepping into the lobby, Ruger was skittish at first as his eyes roamed over the enclosed space. The lobby was light and airy, with carefully placed lamps and various books and magazines.
Two lightly colored striped wingback chairs complimented the dark sofa placed strategically so guests had their backs to a wall. The wood floors creaked as I stepped over to the front desk. I spied a basket of peppermints, and since my sweet tooth needed satiating, I pocketed a handful of the mints.
“May, come with me. I need your help.”
“Okay,” she said. “But I need to rest before we start the long hike to the ranch. If we find an empty room, I’ll take a nap.”
“I’m not keen on a long walk either,” I replied. “Hopefully we won’t have to.”
“Ella,” Kyle said. “Don’t go in Room 4 that has an X on the door. It’s a grisly scene. If you want to, you can leave Ruger with me. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“He’s coming with me,” I replied. “There’s a reason.”
“Alright.” Kyle yawned, took a seat on the sofa, then stretched out. “I’ll catch a few winks here.” He turned to Tommy who was loafing by the front door. “Lock it. I don’t want any surprises.”
The front door lock engaged with a thump, so if there were any unwanted visitors, not that we had seen any people, they’d have to kick in the door or break the windows to get in. I felt safer knowing that, but wouldn’t feel completely safe until I got to the ranch.
When Kyle’s head hit the decorative sofa pillow, he was out. I went over to the front desk, opened a cabinet behind it to find the master keys to the rooms, and took the one marked Room 4.
May and I crept up the stairs, Ruger followed obediently beside me, navigating the stairs with ease. At the top of the landing, I glanced down the hallway. On the door to Room 4, an X had been scrawled in big letters. I led Ruger to the door and eased off the leash, letting it dangle loosely.
Ruger lowered his head and sniffed the space at the bottom of the door. He ran his nose the length of the door, taking in the odors. The odor of the dead bodies was so strong I had to swallow the bile rising in my throat. I placed my hand over my nose, thinking my dirty hand smelled better. Ruger whimpered several times then pawed at the door.
“Ella, what’s he doing?” May asked.
“His owners are in there.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Ruger recognizes their smell.”
“Ohh. That’s awful.” May turned away in disgust.
“Hold Ruger, please. I’m going in.”
“What for?” A horrified expression washed over her face.
“I’m going to search for car keys. Since Ruger’s owners are in there it means the keys to their car are in there too. The roads are clear here, so all we need is a car to get us to the ranch. I needed Ruger to identify his owners. Even dead, I figured he’d still be able to identify them. That’s why I needed him. I don’t want to search any more dead bodies than I have to. Hold Ruger back. Don’t let him in the room.”
I retrieved the room key from my pocket. Right as I was about to open the door, May said, “Ella, take this.” She handed me a scarf. “Put it over your nose. You’ll need it.”
I held it to my nose and steeled myself for the scene on the other side. I opened the door, squeezed in, then shut it behind me.
The odor in the room was so overpowering my eyes watered. Two bloated bodies were on the bed. The man had his arm over the woman as if trying to protect her. Their skin was mottled purple blue-black in places and bodily fluids had leaked out of orifices, staining the cream colored coverlet.
It was all I could do not to vomit, knowing I would have to search the man’s pockets for the keys.
As I stepped closer, I glanced away from the gruesome sight. As luck would have it, I spied a purse on the credenza, next to the TV. It was an expensive purse, tan leather, the kind under lock and key in department stores. I snatched the purse off the credenza, turned it upside down, and dumped out the contents on the floor. Various makeup compacts scattered around, lipstick, a cell phone, a wallet, a hairbrush which I pocketed, lip balm I also stuffed in my pocket, credit cards, a checkbook, receipts, and a pamphlet showcasing a local animal sanctuary where tigers, wolves, cape buffalo, a giraffe, and a honey badger called home. I scattered the contents in a wide circle, searching for keys. I didn’t find any.
The keys had to be here, and I sure didn’t want to dig around in the man’s pockets. I glanced at the purse again and noticed the side compartment was snapped shut. I opened it, and bingo.
I now have keys.
No exhausting long hike necessary or wasting time searching for other keys. I was ready to get to the ranch and if it meant sitting in dog pee, so be it.
Right as I was about to dash out the room, I remembered Kyle needed a clean shirt. I quickly rummaged through the closet, found several shirts, and tugged them off the hangers. I dashed out the room and shut the door. “May!” I said with excitement in my voice. “We have keys. There’s no need to stay here. We can drive to the ranch and be there in a few minutes and sleep in our own bed. Come on, time’s wasting.”
I tugged for Ruger to go, but he wouldn’t budge an inch. Though he was half starving and dehydrated, he still had a lot of strength in him. The water and food must have invigorated him.
“Come, Ruger,” I said, giving the leash a gentle tug. The dog wouldn’t budge. I tugged again, and he twisted and shook, trying to wiggle out of his leash.
“Ella, he doesn’t want to leave his owners in there,” May suggested. “You’ll have to let him say goodbye.”
I was horrified at the thought of going back in there.
“Open the door and let him go in, Ella.”
She was right. Dogs were smarter than we gave them credit for. I opened the door and led Ruger in. He glanced at me, as if he needed my approval. I petted him on the top of his head then down between the eyes. I dropped the leash, and said, “Go on. You need to say goodbye.”
Ruger took several cautious steps towards the bed, stepping around the scattered contents of the purse, his tail tucked between his legs. He lifted his snout, sniffing the mixture of life and death wafting in the room, and when he came to the bed, he put his nose to the cold gray hand dangling over the side of the bed, sniffing the curled fingers.
Ruger sniffed some more, then rested his snout on his owner’s hand. He stayed like that for a few moments until I picked up the leash and gave it a tug. He didn’t resist this time, and when I guided him to the door, he stopped, took one last look at his owners. I reluctantly shut the door on the only life he had known.
His owners obviously had taken care of him and loved him, and it showed in the way he treated their bodies. We all had suffered loss, and now I had one more life to be responsible for, although I didn’t mind because having a dog comforted me, especially since our family dog had died six months prior.
It was time to go, and our footsteps were heavy with sadness. May and I padded down the stairs, Ruger following us.
When we came to the bend in the staircase, Tommy and Kyle were sacked out on the sofa, dead to the world.
“Wake up,” I said, jostling Kyle. “I’ve got keys to a car.”
He yawned and cracked open an eye. “Hmm? What’s going on?”
“I’ve got keys to the car we rescued Ruger from.”
“You do?”
“I do. Ruger alerted me the dead people in room 4 were his owners.”
“You went in there?”
“Uh huh. And I found these keys.” I tossed them up then snapped my fingers around them for emphasis. “These will save us a long hike.”
Kyle propped himself with an arm. “The dog communicated that to you? How?”
“I’ll tell you later. Get your things and let’s go. I’m ready to get to the ranch.”
Chapter 23
“Oh, man, does this car stink!” Tommy exclaimed.
Tommy was sitting in the back
seat with May, Kyle was in the passenger seat. Ruger sat between Tommy and May, who was stroking the nervous, panting dog. I was driving, and had only traveled a mile when Tommy started complaining.
“Next time I’ll be sure to stop by the car wash to get it detailed to your liking.” I glanced over my shoulder and threw Tommy a world class smirk.
“I don’t like sitting in dog pee,” Tommy huffed.
“I’d be happy to stop the car so you can walk the rest of the way. It’s a genuine offer too.”
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “How much further?”
“Less than ten minutes. I’ll take a right at the rest stop, then once we’re on the dirt road, it’ll be no time at all.”
We were all tired and dirty, and the first thing I planned to do was to go to the spring and take a bath.
Near the house, my ancestors had built a windmill for pumping water, which was collected in a cistern. We needed to conserve as much water as possible, considering the long, hot summer was nearing. Days of blistering one hundred degree temperatures was the norm in July and August.
My grandpa told us when he had to work the ranch, he and his brother would start working at 6 a.m. By 10 a.m. they had to stop because it got too hot for the horses. They’d eat a meal, sleep the afternoon away, eat again, then they’d start working around 7 p.m. They carried lanterns with them so they could work until midnight. With all that hard labor, no wonder they were lean. In the black and white photos of that time, the women were older than their years and had shriveled like a prune by the time they were forty, laboring along with the men in the hot sun.
Turning the car into the entrance of the ranch, I announced, “We’re here. The house is about a hundred yards down this road.”
“I hope Uncle Grant is okay,” May said.
“He has to be,” I replied, because if he wasn’t, I wasn’t sure what to do. We’d have to make it on our own.
I pulled the car to the gate and stopped. Before I could open the door, Kyle said, “I’ll open the gate. What’s the combo to the lock?”
“1600,” I replied.
“As in 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?”
I smiled and nodded. “It was Uncle Grant’s idea.”
“I’m beginning to like your uncle.”
“If Uncle Grant is here, then it shouldn’t be locked.”
Kyle tested the chain, and called out, “It’s not locked. It only looked that way.”
I pulled the car through and Kyle shut the gate.
The unpaved rocky road curved to the topography of the land. Scrubby live oak trees lined the sides, and at times the brush was so thick it obscured the line of vision to the creek running parallel to the ranch boundary. A few hardy wildflowers were still blooming, and bees flitted from flower to flower.
Century old trees lined the creek, and that was where the treehouse my dad built me was. It was like a little one room house, with a carpeted floor, two windows to take advantage of a cross breeze, a shelf containing books, and the kitchen—if it could be called that—had a place to prepare food. A foldout table and two chairs rounded it out. The last time I was there, my dad had stacked a case of bottled water for emergencies, along with a first aid kit, and ointments for bug bites. There was no running water, although a pulley system had been rigged to haul up larger items when necessary. Two bunk beds lined one wall, and I hoped a mouse hadn’t taken up residence in the mattresses. I’d find out as soon as I said hello to Uncle Grant.
The treehouse was anchored to a huge oak tree, and used two of its sturdiest limbs as a supporting beam. To gain entrance to the treehouse, my dad installed a ladder, which could be hoisted up like a drawbridge in case Indians attacked, my dad explained playfully. The switch to lower it was placed on a nearby tree, hidden in a natural hole. My dad said it was to keep trespassers out; another switch was located inside the front door.
I drove another fifty yards, the white caliche dust billowing behind the car, blanketing the oak trees in a gray haze. A good rain would wash it away.
Finally, the old homestead house came into view. The two-story house had been built in the 1800s when my ancestors settled on the land. Long windows placed strategically in the rooms allowed for cross breezes to cool the house in the summer. In the winter, several fireplaces heated the house. We never had central heat or air in the house, even when it became available. I suppose that was a good thing now, considering there was no more electricity.
When the heat of the summer became too much, I’d slip down the steep stairs leading to the cellar so I could cool off. The door to the cellar resembled a closet door, and could be bolted from the inside. My ancestors made it that way in case of Indian attacks, not that there were any when they finally made it to Central Texas, but they were told to construct the cellar for safety and food storage.
There was also a narrow tunnel leading from the cellar to the side of a hill about a hundred yards away. My parents warned May and I never to crawl into the tunnel, citing the unstable beams. At this point I wasn’t even sure if it was passable.
I cut the engine to the car and put it in park, then honked the horn twice to get Uncle Grant’s attention.
His truck was parked in front of the house so he must be close by.
“Let’s unload and go on in,” I said.
“Where should we put our stuff?” Kyle asked.
“There’s one bedroom downstairs, three upstairs,” I said. “May and I will take the one with two single beds. You and Tommy can have separate bedrooms, whichever ones Uncle Grant isn’t in.
Kyle slung his backpack across his back then hoisted May’s on his shoulder to help her out because she was still feeling the effects of the snake bite.
I let Ruger out of the car. He lifted his snout, his nostrils twitching and working, taking in the smells of the land. His eyes took in his new surroundings, and when he looked toward the creek where the trees are thick and the ground damp with leaves, he growled low in his throat.
I patted him, smoothing down the ruff standing up on his back. “It’s okay, Ruger. Nothing’s there, other than an armadillo or some wild hogs.”
Ruger looked at me, whining, those dark eyes, trying to tell me something. “What is it, boy? What are you trying to tell me?”
Tommy sidled up to the house and as he was opening the door, I said, “I wouldn’t go in. Uncle Grant doesn’t know who you are. He’s been known to shoot intruders before.”
“No way,” Tommy said, snorting a huff.
“If we had internet, I’d Google his name so you could read the article about a house invasion. The thugs picked the wrong house. Grant’s house to be specific. He was a former policeman who went into the security business, so I wouldn’t mess with him if I was you. He especially doesn’t like smart asses, and he’s always armed. Plus, he’s got a mean dog who doesn’t like strangers.”
That did the trick. Tommy backed away from the front door.
Leading Ruger to the house, I coaxed him to walk on the pathway of stones collected at a local creek. Smooth, pancake sized stones, washed and tumbled clean by water and other elements. As kids, May and I would always take time to turn over the stones, looking for a prized horned toad.
Before entering, I rapped my knuckles on the door and shouted, “Uncle Grant! It’s Ella. Are you here? I’m here with May and a couple of other friends.” I waited for an answer then tried again. No luck, so I turned the doorknob, and to my surprise it was locked.
“What’s the matter?” May asked.
“The door’s locked. We never lock the door.”
“That’s kinda stupid,” Tommy commented. “You should always lock the door.”
“It doesn’t matter out here. If someone wanted to break in, a locked door wouldn’t stop them. It’s better to keep it unlocked so there’s less damage if they do. When nobody’s here, we keep the main gate locked.”
“That’s his truck, right?” Kyle asked.
“It is,” I confirmed.
>
“Then he can’t be too far away. Maybe he’s walking the fence line or something. Or out in the pasture.”
“Possibly, but it still doesn’t explain why the door is locked.”
“Didn’t Mom and Dad used to keep a key under one of these rocks?” May asked.
“Yes. It should be under the seventh one from the house.” Walking along, I individually counted the rocks, and when I came to the seventh one, I turned it over. Spying the key, I said, “You’re right, May. Here it is.” I held it up for everyone to see.
When I entered the house, I immediately shivered, not the kind from the cold, but the kind from an ingrained sixth sense, announcing loud and clear to be careful.
I stood with my mouth agape, trying to comprehend the scene. It was absolute chaos. Chairs were turned over. Lamps lay askew on the floor. Magazines were scattered everywhere. Cushions on the sofa were halfway on like somebody had used it as a lever to propel themselves for a jump. Broken dishes were scattered on the floor in the kitchen. Two windows were broken.
“Do you think this was a break in?” I picked up a lamp and righted it, then bent over to pick up two bottles of whiskey next to the sofa. “I guess Uncle Grant and J.D. had a party all to themselves.”
“Who’s J.D.?” May asked.
“Jack Daniels.”
“Oh, I get it. Bourbon. Hand those to me,” May said. “I’ll toss them in the trash.”
“This was no burglary,” Kyle said.
“How do you know?”
“Because drawers haven’t been opened.” Kyle went over to the broken window to inspect it. “That’s odd.” He peered outside the window then looked at the ground. “The window was broken from the inside. Glass shards are below it. But on this one, the break-in was from the outside.”