Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7)

by Anthony M. Strong

  “And that’s the truck they were driving,” Decker said, jerking a thumb back toward the red pickup sitting some fifteen feet away.

  “Then where’s his friend?” Barnes asked.

  Decker circled the body, careful not to disturb anything a forensic team might want to examine later. “Good question. Maybe he came up here alone.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, judging by those wounds, he ran into the same creature that tried to kill us last night. Body’s been here a while, but not too long. I’d say less than twenty-four hours, although the ME will be able to give us a better estimate. Question is, what was he doing here?”

  “We need to search the area.” Decker stepped away from the body. “See if he was alone. I would also like to know what he found so interesting about this particular spot.”

  “I’ll take the truck,” Fowler said, pulling a pair of blue nitril gloves from his pocket and putting them on.

  “Here.” Barnes offered a pair of gloves to Decker.

  “Thanks.” He took them and looked past the FBI agent at the two Las Vegas PD officers. “One of you should call this in, get a team up here. Secure the scene.”

  “I’ll handle that,” Glendale said, turning back toward the helicopter.

  “Officer Parsons, you can help search. If this guy’s friend is around here, we need to know.”

  “Sure thing,” Parsons replied.

  “We’ll fan out from the body. Each person in a different direction. If you find anything, call out. And expect the unexpected. This isn’t a regular crime scene. Ready?”

  “Ready.” Barnes nodded.

  They set off in different directions. Fowler headed toward the truck. Parsons followed his colleague back toward the helicopter. Moving past it, he started to search up the trail. Barnes made his way toward the Rocky outcrop. Decker headed down the trail in the other direction. He could see the tire marks left by the truck, but no footprints, which meant it was unlikely the truck’s occupants had ventured this way. It turned out he was right. He was only a few minutes into the search when Barnes let out a loud holler.

  “Over here. I’ve found another one.”

  Decker turned and hurried back toward the scene, and at first, he couldn’t tell where Barnes was. But then he saw the FBI agent’s head and shoulders above a tangle of bushes. He was in the cleft formed by the Rocky outcrop, standing near a jagged escarpment.

  The Vegas police officers were heading back. Agent Fowler was already pushing his way through the bushes, cursing as branches caught on his bare arms and scratched him.

  Decker quickened his pace, reaching the narrow crevice at a jog and following the FBI agent along the narrow path between the rocks. He pushed the bushes aside and emerged into a wider area surrounded by large boulders. At one end was a gaping hole in the earth, the interior nothing but an inky black void. Broken and rotten timbers lay scattered about. A crowbar sat discarded in the dirt near the entrance. Nearby, a few feet from the dark mine entrance, lay a second body.

  “I guess we know what these two jokers were doing up here,” Barnes said, glancing toward the hole in the rocks. “After we chased them away from the mine, they came looking for another way in.”

  Decker looked down at the ruined body, desecrated in the same manner as Sasha Martin and the two campers. “And in the process, they released something they weren’t expecting.”

  “Looks that way.” Barnes kneeled beside the body. With his nitrile gloves on, he patted the man down. “Under normal circumstances, I’d wait for forensics to process the scene before searching a victim, but time is ticking.”

  “Forensics aren’t going to be much good to us anyway,” Decker said. He moved close to Barnes and kneeled next to him. “We’ve already met our killer, and it’s not one of the usual suspects.”

  “I agree.” Barnes had found something in the dead man’s back pocket. A wallet. He opened it and studied the driver’s license contained within, then glanced between Decker and Fowler. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Wagner Mitchell, owner of that truck parked yonder, and the man we’ve been trying to find since yesterday.”

  “Looks like he’s beyond giving an interview at this point,” Fowler observed.

  “Which is a shame, because I’d really like to know what business he had in that mine.” Decker glanced back toward the other body. “I’d also love to know who his friend is.”

  “Let’s find out,” Fowler said. He turned and pushed his way back through the bushes toward the second corpse. He bent down—careful not to step in the pool of congealed blood—and rummaged through the man’s clothing until he came up with a second wallet. He flipped it open, then closed it again as Decker and Barnes approached. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I know this guy.”

  “What?” Decker glanced down at the corpse. “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Harlan Biggs. Owns a casino off the Strip. A real dive, although he’s been renovating it. He’s a smalltime hustler who thinks he’s a big shot.”

  “Harlan Biggs. Why do I know that name?” Barnes asked.

  “Probably because we’ve had a file open on his family and their associates for decades. His father used to launder money for a local mobster named Oscar Rossi. The Bureau tried to turn his old man years ago, even tried to have his gaming license revoked to force his hand, but he’d never squeal. That was before my time, of course. Harlan isn’t like that. Never had the stomach for it, although there’s talk that he got himself mixed up with Rossi all over again. Probably how he came up with the dough for the casino renovation.”

  “Guess he won’t be paying the loan back now,” Barnes said.

  “Not unless Rossi has some contacts on the other side.” Fowler dropped the wallet into an evidence bag handed to him by the Vegas cop, Glendale, and sealed it. “I think it’s time we find out what these two jokers were up to before they got themselves killed.”

  “Best place to start would be their home premises.”

  “It’s like you read my mind.” Fowler nodded. “You think Judge Rodrigues is in a good mood today?”

  “Probably not,” Barnes replied. “But he’ll still give us search warrants, I’ll bet. He wants nothing more than to clear the organized crime out of Vegas once and for all.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Fowler turned to the helicopter pilot. “You call this in?”

  Glendale nodded. “CSU are on the way.”

  “Perfect. We’ll let PD clean up.” Fowler started back toward the helicopter. “Take us back to town, quick as you can.”

  “Wait,” Decker said. He turned and made his way back toward the cleft in the rocks. He pushed his way past the bushes and approached the mine entrance, stepping around Wagner Mitchell’s body.

  “What are you doing?” Barnes said, following behind. “There’s no time to waste.”

  “I have a hunch,” Decker said. He pulled his phone out and found the photo the geologists took deep within the mine. The three mummified bodies huddled against a rock wall. He zoomed in on the strange symbol drawn in the earth in front of them. Stepping a few feet inside the mine entrance, Decker kneeled down and used his finger to draw the same symbol in the dusty soil.

  “I assume there’s a reason you’re doodling on the ground.” Barnes looked perplexed.

  Decker straightened up. “There is. Those three corpses the geologists found weren’t mutilated.” He held the phone up and showed Barnes the picture. “Look at their stomachs. Intact. Not a scratch.”

  “So?”

  “That symbol. It looks Native American. If I’m right, it’s for protection. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would the creature leave them alone?”

  “Maybe their deaths were nothing to do with the creature,” Barnes said. “There might be no connection.”

  “Possible. But I don’t think so. It was stalking them, I’m sure of it.” Decker slipped the phone back into his pocket. “There’s no other reason they would sit there and not walk o
ut. They were hoping the creature would go away, but it didn’t, so instead they had no choice but to wait and starve to death.”

  “What a horrible way to die. Stuck in the darkness knowing you can never leave.” Barnes shuddered.

  “If my hunch is correct, their deaths were not in vain.” Decker looked down at the symbol he’d drawn on the tunnel floor. “This will contain the creature. It won’t be able to pass beyond it.”

  “Only if your hunch is correct. And that’s a big if.”

  “Yes.” Decker started back toward the helicopter. “You’d better hope I’m right. We don’t have time to reseal the mine entrance before dark.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then the creature will return again tonight,” Decker said as they reached the helicopter and climbed in. “And we’ll have to be ready for it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  By two o’clock that afternoon, Decker was standing outside the Prospectors Paradise Hotel and Casino, with Special Agent Barnes at his side clutching the newly minted search warrant issued by Judge Rodrigues and collected from the Las Vegas Municipal Courthouse only a half hour before. Three miles away, at the Sunset Towers condo building overlooking the Las Vegas Strip, Special Agent Fowler was getting ready to search Wagner Mitchell’s home with a junior agent in tow.

  The hotel casino was closed for renovations, with scaffolding covering the front façade, and construction materials piled high in the parking lot. The lobby doors, though, were not locked, and Decker could see workers wearing hard hats moving about within.

  “Looks like business as normal here,” Decker commented. “They obviously haven’t missed their boss yet.”

  “I bet work will come to a screeching halt when they find out Harlan Biggs is dead. There won’t be anyone to pay the construction company.”

  “Not our problem,” Barnes replied. He took his credentials out and headed toward the main doors. They hadn’t gotten more than a few feet across the hotel lobby when a booming voice shouted in their direction.

  “Hey, you two. What are you doing in here? Can’t you see the casino’s closed? This is a construction site.”

  Decker turned to see a stocky man wearing a fluorescent jacket and yellow hard hat stomping toward them. He carried a walkie-talkie in one hand, and a clipboard in the other.

  “We’re not here to gamble,” Decker said as the man drew close to them.

  Barnes held up his credentials. “FBI. We have a warrant to search the hotel and the owner’s personal accommodation.”

  “You want Harlan Biggs, then,” the worker said. “He ain’t here. Haven’t seen him all day.”

  “We’re aware of that.” Barnes slipped the credentials wallet back into his pocket. “You are?”

  “Matt Campbell. Site supervisor. I work for Calder Construction. We’re handling oversight of the renovation, including the hotel rooms.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Matt,” Barnes said. He glanced toward the casino, where a dozen or more workers were busy laying floors. “These are all your employees?”

  “Some. Depends what job they’re doing. A majority are subcontractors. Electricians, carpenters, day laborers, and the like. They come and go. It’s hard to keep track.”

  “I see.” Barnes nodded. “When was the last time you saw Harlan Biggs?”

  “Yesterday. Early afternoon. That goes for his general manager too.”

  “Wagner Mitchell.”

  “Yeah. He was running around the construction zone, getting in the way. No clue what he was doing. Then the pair of them disappeared. Haven’t seen ‘em since.”

  And you won’t see them again, thought Decker, but he said nothing. Instead, he glanced toward the elevators. “Where can we find Harlan Biggs’ personal accommodation?”

  “Top floor.” Campbell snorted. “He’s got a couple of guest rooms up there that he knocked into one and likes to call the penthouse suite. Thinks he’s the king of the castle.”

  “Is it only the penthouse on the top floor?” Barnes asked.

  “Nah. There are other guestrooms up there, but he ain’t renovating them. Doesn’t want people staying on the same floor as him. Claims he’s going to rip them out and put a VIP bar and restaurant up there instead. You can’t miss his penthouse suite. He’s actually got it written on the door.”

  “You know where we can find a key for that unit?” Barnes asked.

  “You could try Penny Blake, the office manager. She’d probably have one.”

  “And where would we find her?”

  “Go through that door over there,” Campbell said, pointing across the lobby away from the casino to a door marked STAFF ONLY. “That’s the administrative offices. She’ll be the first door on the left.”

  “Thank you,” Barnes said. “Are you going to be here for a while?”

  “Until at least six,” Campbell replied.

  “Perfect. If we have any further questions, we’ll come find you.”

  “Sure.” Campbell shrugged and turned, making his way back into the gutted casino.

  Barnes and Decker headed in the other direction and soon found Penny Blake’s office.

  Barnes knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice said from within.

  Barnes opened the door and stepped inside with Decker right behind.

  Penny Blake was a rail thin woman in her early fifties who wore too much makeup and obviously bleached her hair. If it surprised her to receive a visit from the FBI, she didn’t show it.

  Barnes handed her the search warrant and explained the situation. This time he didn’t hold back the news of Harlan and Wagner’s deaths.

  Penny looked shocked. The color drained from her face. “Oh my, that’s terrible.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from a box on the desk, then dabbed her eyes. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen them today. I never imagined they were dead.”

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of tragic news,” Barnes replied. “We found them in the desert, near an old mine entrance. You wouldn’t happen to know what they were doing there, would you?”

  “An old mine?” Penny shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Harlan wasn’t exactly the outdoors type.”

  Barnes nodded.

  Penny glanced down at the search warrant. “I suppose you want access to the penthouse?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Penny stood and crossed to a safe set into the wall behind her. She dialed a combination and opened it. Decker saw rows of keys hanging on hooks inside. When she turned around again, there was a plastic card in her hand.

  “Here,” she said, offering them the key card. “Harlan always keeps a spare in the safe.”

  “Thank you.” Barnes accepted it. “We’ll let you know when we’re done up there. I don’t know how long it will be.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here for a few more hours, at least.” Penny gave them a sad smile. “Although who knows if I’ll be here tomorrow. Guess I need to look for another job.”

  Barnes looked uncomfortable. “If you’re not around when we’re done, I’ll slip the key under the door.”

  Penny nodded and pulled another tissue from the box with a loud sniff. A tear ran down her cheek. She was still crying when they left the office, closing the door behind them, and turned back toward the lobby.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The penthouse belonging to the recently deceased Harlan Biggs, on the top floor of the Prospectors Paradise Hotel and Casino, was a world away from what most people would consider swanky living. A set of keys that bore a Porsche logo sat on a side table next to the door, and the living room contained a wet bar fit for an alcoholic, but other than that, the place was tired and old. The furniture, though high-quality, bore the scars of faded opulence. The walls were covered with framed photographs, many of them black and white and obviously harkening back to the glory days of the brat pack. Some were signed. Most were not. Decker recognized such luminaries as Wayne Newton, Sammy Davis Junior, Elvis Presley, and Bob N
ewhart. He wondered if these performers had any connection to the hotel, or if they were just stage dressing for Harlan Biggs’ ego. Not that it mattered anymore. The man who lived in a faded penthouse suite atop a struggling hotel and casino would never be back.

  “What’s that god-awful stench?” Barnes asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Smells like garbage,” Decker said, crossing the living room and approaching the bar. “It’s worse, closer to the window.”

  “Some penthouse. Smells more like a flophouse.” Barnes spent a moment studying the collection of photographs, then turned away, his eyes roving around the room. “Doesn’t look like there’s much of interest in here.”

  “Agreed. Although I’m not exactly sure what we’re even looking for.”

  “We’ll know when we see it, I guess.” Barnes pointed toward a door near the bar, beyond which an unmade bed was visible, sheets ruffled. “I’m going to check in there.”

  “Sure. I’ll take the kitchen,” Decker said. He crossed back through the living room to the entrance hall and was about to turn right into the small kitchen, when he saw another door to his left. He poked his head inside and discovered an office with dark wood shelves lining the walls. A desk occupied the center of the room, over which hung a brass ceiling fan.

  Decker stepped inside, curious. If Harlan Biggs had left any clues regarding his activities out in the desert, and why he was so interested in the Ghost Canyon Mine, this felt like the logical place for them.

  When he saw a leather-bound volume, much older than the rest of the books in the room, his hunch was rewarded. It lay on the desk next to an empty whiskey glass. Decker felt a tingle of anticipation. It was conspicuous enough to be what they were looking for.

  Decker approached the desk and sat down. Putting on a pair of nitrile gloves, he opened the book, careful not to damage it, and studied the first page. There was an inscription in spidery cursive.

  A TRUE AND ACCURATE ACCOUNT

  OF THE EXPLOITS OF TRAVIS WILLIAM BIGGS,