The Labyrinth Key

by Christopher Cartwright

  The Labyrinth Key

  By

  Christopher Cartwright

  Copyright 2019 by Christopher Cartwright

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgements:

  I wouldn’t be able to write any of these books without the help of a multitude of people who have assisted along the way. Specifically, I would like to thank Bic for all the help she provided behind the scenes, and without whom, this book wouldn’t have come to fruition in its present form.

  I would like to thank my editor, David Gilmore and my team of proof readers – without them, you would be receiving a far inferior version of the book you read today – JC Barb, Rohen Kapur, Mike Riley, Kris Densley, Mykel Densley, Liia Miller, Leslie Miller, Peter Gifford, Ross Jarratt, Joannie Jenkins, Sheelagh Rogers, Jacquie Gilfillan, and Colleen Mundis.

  Thank you!

  Christopher Cartwright.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Rhyolite, Nevada – Fifteen Years Ago

  Ethan Jones held his breath and listened in the dark.

  It was a quarter past seven in the morning and he knew exactly what he was going to do. What he didn’t know, was why he felt compelled to do it. Call it childhood bravado, peer pressure, or just plain stupidity… it didn’t matter. The fact was, if he was caught, his old man would try to kill him. If he was lucky, it would be the leather strap. Hard to kill a boy like that in a fit of rage. He would draw plenty of blood, but even so, would struggle to kill him. No, the greatest risk was that his father would lash out and simply beat him to death with his fists. Either way, one thing was certain – he didn’t intend to get caught.

  The silence was finally interrupted and he was rewarded with the sound of the screen door closing on the timber frame, followed by his father’s heavy boots treading on the well-worn porch steps. The eight-year-old subconsciously held his breath, waiting for the shriek of the pickup truck’s ancient hinge and the subsequent rifle-shot report as the heavy door slammed shut.

  He listened to the sweet music of the V8 motor rumble to life, signaling his reprieve, exhaling long and slow with relief. Stones crackled under the tires as the truck turned and pulled away from the house. He pictured the truck moving up the track toward the road and waited until he heard the motor race as his father planted his foot on the accelerator, driving up the main track toward the highway.

  After the sound came and went, he left the relative safety of his room and tip-toed to the kitchen. From there, he peeked through the cloudy old window, looking for the tail of dust heading south toward Beatty. A microscopic smile creased his lips. He was finally alone. At his age, a single night could seem like a lifetime; especially when his father was drinking – which was always.

  Suddenly aware of his empty stomach, he headed for the almost-antique refrigerator. The old timber boards creaked under his feet, despite his attempts to step around the noisy spots in the floor he’d memorized over the years. He pulled the heavy snap handle on the Kelvinator and gazed at the space where food should be. Plenty of liquids clinking in there, but nothing to satisfy his hunger. The only non-alcoholic item was a giant glass bottle of orange juice, which he took from the door. On tip-toes, he awkwardly poured some into a small glass, making sure to leave plenty behind. He took down a packet of Saltines from the larder and removed a few from the box.

  As he ate, he focused his gaze on the light coming up from between the floorboards beneath the table, trying to see the stones and sand under the kitchen. He could feel the heat rising up from there already, warm against the bottom of his bare feet. He knew today, like most days, would be hot as hell. He also knew his father wouldn’t be back until midnight at least, because today was Saturday – his favorite day of the week. Optimism flooded through him and his thoughts turned back to where they’d left off, gaining traction as the fog of deep sleep slowly lifted.

  Ah yes, the pistol!

  He made himself finish eating before heading to his father’s bedroom. He crossed the room and stopped to listen hard, just to be sure. He double-checked the distant view again. Nothing. Just the constant buzz of a million flies, going about their business, and the glare of the Death Valley sun – already shimmering off the stony surrounds.

  He crossed the forbidden threshold of his father’s room.

  The point of no return.

  Get caught from here on in and his dad would make him pay with blood.

  The smell of five thousand alcoholic snores still hung thickly in the musky, stifling air. The moth-eaten translucent drapes hung limply from the curtain rail, the same dirty white as the other fabric in the room. Odorous singlets and socks here and there, beer cans on the furnishings, mashed cigarette ends in the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand.

  He grinned.

  It was the nightstand that held the prize.

  Ethan knelt down beside the bed and pulled open its wooden drawer. It sat on the side of the bed where his mother used to sleep, years ago – when she was still alive. Her side had been the closest to the door. Some part of him ached to be able to creep to her in the ni
ght, as he once had, and be received into her perfumed embrace.

  In the open drawer, to Ethan’s relief, the bundle was sitting exactly where his father had left it. He was sure it had not been disturbed. He could smell the faint scent of machine oil over the camphor sweetness of the timber, and memorized again exactly how the package was positioned in the drawer, with part of the oil emblem visible on the t-shirt rag in which it was wrapped.

  Again, he paused a beat and listened.

  All clear.

  It had been long enough now, he decided, that his father would be too far from home to make it worth returning for some forgotten item. He took up the bundle and laid it upside down on the yellowed sheets of his father’s bed. He unwrapped the parcel and stared at it. A treasure. An item of real power. A Colt Lawman .357 Magnum revolver. A police gun. He ran his finger over the writing inscribed on the burnished black barrel.

  He read out loud, “LAWMAN MARK III.”

  He traced his pointer finger down the barrel, over the chamber and felt the indented inscription of the pony standing passant on the front of the timber stock. He grabbed up the weapon and weighed the steel and wooden pistol. It was heavy in his small hand. He loved the feeling of the gun in his grip. He thumbed back the chamber lock and tilted the weapon, feeling every bit an expert as the cylinder tumbled open.

  He knew the gun was empty but checked it again – inspecting the barrel and chamber, then flicked the chamber closed. With reverence, he gently cocked the two-stage hammer and eased the revolver through its firing cycle. He squeezed the trigger but controlled the grip-top of the hammer to stop it from flying forward and damaging the precious firing pin in a dry fire.

  At eight years of age, Ethan had read every gun review he could find on Google at the school library computer, and he knew this weapon well. He knew his father’s example was old and worn, but as reliable as any gun ever made. He left the packet of .357 rounds in the drawer – to be certain that his father didn’t notice any were missing – and bundled up the t-shirt rag again – making sure to replace it in the exact position he’d found it. Perhaps it would pass a cursory inspection if his father was drunk enough. He shoved the revolver in the back waist of his jeans, pulled his shirt down over it, and headed for the blinding light of the day outside.

  The hot blanket of the Nevada day enveloped him as he stepped out and onto the porch. He brushed away the instant fly strike and eased the door closed silently, always the opposite to the way his father did things. He headed out back to the barn where a box of long forgotten .38 Specials lay in a tub and picked it up, stuffing it in to his back pocket. In the distance he heard his best friend, one of the few neighbors they had, named Joshua Rowe, admonishing his little sister, Mia, about walking too slow.

  Ethan grinned.

  He knew they would be at his house soon, just like every Saturday.

  He popped out into the sun from the dark barn, squinted and shielded his eyes, gauging the distance of his friends. No time to load the weapon now, he decided. He could surprise them later. He whistled at the two children walking single file up the drive, and they changed course toward the barn. Ethan started walking north, away from the homestead, and they picked up their pace to catch up to him.

  “Where are we going?” Josh called. He was the same age as Ethan, but smaller in stature, and had always looked up to him.

  “Montgomery Shoshone!” Ethane called over his shoulder, not giving any quarter.

  “Wait up!” Josh pleaded. “The mine? Why?”

  Ethan stopped walking and turned to face the two smaller children, now about fifteen yards away and scurrying to catch up.

  “Let’s go shoot some rats!” he said, pulling the gun from his waistband and holding it aloft like a starter’s pistol.

  “We’re not allowed down there,” said Mia, before sticking her thumb back in her mouth to quell the rising anguish she felt having spoken aloud to the bigger, meaner boys.

  “Don’t be a stupid baby!” Ethan snapped back. He turned and looked directly at the boy, excluding the little girl with his body language. “C’mon Josh, let’s leave your sister here if she’s gonna be such a baby.”

  “Where’d you get the gun?” Josh asked, his eyes wide and transfixed by the weapon.

  “What, this?” Ethan replied, pointing the pistol straight at the boy who instantly cowered away. Ethan hovered, enjoying the power differential for a few moments “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.” With a smirk of condescension, he added, “Not yet, anyway.”

  “You got shells for it?” Josh asked, trying to regain his composure.

  “Yep. 38 Specials. Whole box of ‘em.” Ethan said. He pulled the weighty shells from his baggy jeans’ pocket and handed them to the smaller boy, who was now completely under his power. He watched in delight as Joshua chastised his little sister, attempting to hurry her along as he set a pace for the forbidden mine shaft.

  Joshua and Mia followed along with Ethan, through a chain-link fence marked ‘No Entry!’ and on into the complex of huts adjoining the abandoned mineshaft. They approached a gateway leading into the shaft itself and Ethan pushed on the protective wire gate, forcing a small opening. “Hurry up, ya babies!” he yelled back at Josh and his little sister. He noticed the girl was some distance behind, her attention diverted to one of the nearby derelict huts adjoining the mineshaft entrance.

  “Felix!” she called out, “Hey Felix!”

  Ethan watched a small black and white cat trot over to the girl. It arrived at her worn out old cowboy boots, mewled, and swirled around her legs until she bent over and patted its head. It was a scrawny looking thing; he felt instantly overtaken with contempt for the creature, revolted by the girl’s attention as she cooed, kneeling down, trying to cuddle it.

  The cat was wily and slipped from her grasp, preserving its freedom as she clumsily grabbed at it in kindly pursuit. The little girl giggled and chatted to the cat, stroking his back and playing along. The whole display annoyed Ethan to no end. He stepped away from the mineshaft entry and moved toward the approaching boy.

  “Hand me those bullets,” he commanded Josh, his hand outstretched.

  Josh could see what was on Ethan’s mind but acquiesced, despite his dread, and passed over the box of shells. “Ethan, please don’t.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Ethan called to the little girl, ensconced in her play with the little cat.

  Without looking up, she called back, “This here’s Felix. Best mouser in all the land!”

  The cat had returned to his position a short distance from the girl, leaning in to get the most pleasure from brushing up against a wood and stone hut. It leapt, chasing a grasshopper, playfully stalking its prey.

  “I hate cats,” Ethan said quietly. He fixed his attention on loading the cartridges ruefully into each chamber, allowing a wicked smile to creep across his face.

  Josh said, “Ethan, please don’t. She’ll tell for sure.”

  “Looks like a feral to me!” Ethan called out. “I’d suggest you hop out of the way, Mia.”

  Without hesitation he raised the pistol, braced his arm, aimed, and squeezed off a round. A spout of dust kicked up right next to the cat who froze, hunkered down and flattened its ears back for a moment, then with a flick of the tail, continued on with its mission. Ethan raised the pistol again, and this time aimed directly at the cat.

  Mia, who had been frozen in terror, lurched into his field of fire, trying to save the cat. “Felix! No!” she screamed. This snapped the cat into action, and it bounded off along the siding.

  Ethan tracked the cat as it jumped and sprang along the building. He brought another round from the pistol, just in front of the cat, who in turn bucked wildly, suddenly aware of the danger as the shot rang out and kicked up the dirt in front of it.

  He was laughing now, enjoying the thrill of his newfound power.

  The cat paused again, its head cocked, trying to determine where the shots had come from. Mia was screaming at the ca
t to run.

  Josh steeled his resolve and said, “Hey, that’s enough, Ethan… it isn’t funny anymore!”

  The cat suddenly got the idea and started running away.

  Ethan leveled the barrel of the Lawman III, his eyes squinting as he narrowed in on the target.

  Mia ran for the cat, bravely and stupidly placing herself between the shooter and his target. Josh, realizing what was about to happen, grabbed up his little sister, restraining her from running after the still-moving cat. He lifted her up from behind and she kicked out, arms squashed against her waist in his grip.

  Ethan was vaguely aware that she was screaming.

  He returned his eye to the gun’s sight; slowing himself down by holding his breath, then exhaling with deliberate control. The cat was drawing near the edge of the building and Ethan pushed the muzzle to aim a half a foot in front of its head and gently squeezed. The gun felt completely weightless in his grip as the thrill of the moment consumed him. The round exploded from the gun, sending a small mound of dirt up into the air. The cat screeched and ran off, disappearing into the disused mine shaft.

  “Felix!” the girl screamed, following after the stray cat.

  Ethan started laughing at the sight…

  Josh turned to him, angry now. “What the hell is wrong with you? You could have killed it!”

  “So what if I did?” Ethan replied. “It’s just a stupid feral cat. There’s a million of ‘em around this town.”

  Josh looked at his little sister, then back at him, defiant, red-faced in the heat, chest heaving with ragged breaths, nearly silent.

  Ethan realized he needed to make this easier on Josh if he didn’t want the littler boy to tell on him. “I actually didn’t mean to get the damned thing, okay? I was just messing around. I’m sorry.”

  Behind them, Mia looked pleadingly at her brother and said, “I wanna go home.”

  Josh wavered, his eyes darting between his sister and best friend, unsure of what to do. His face twisted in a hardened grimace, certain that either option was going to make him unpopular with someone. He frowned and said to Ethan, “We’d better go home. I can keep her from talking, but not if we make her stay here any longer.”

  Ethan nodded. A slight twinge of fear overcoming his bravado. If she talked, he was a dead man. He nodded. Looked at the little girl and said, “Come on, Mia, we’ll take you home.”