Burke smiled as he saw the approaching lights of a Learjet. The Reverend Thompson will be returning, all right. He shall be returned unto the earth. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. It serves him right for questioning me.
When I found out about the Lancaster’s dying in a house fire, my first instinct was to call Deputy Emily Holland. I was hesitant at first. I’m not sure I was thinking straight. After dropping the phone, I sat in shock for several minutes. I tried to process the information logically. Big mistake. The whole thing was very surreal and the more I thought about it, the more I started to panic. After all, it wasn’t too hard to imagine a scenario where the MCP had killed the Lancasters and made it look like an accident. And if they had talked… it could have led the MCP right to me.
“Detective Holland?” I said when she picked up.
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Stephen O’Neill—the Emergency doctor from the other day. I need to talk to you. It’s about the fire at Tumbledown Ranch. We need to meet.”
“What do you know about that case?”
“A lot. Can we meet? I’m kind of… well… I just found out about the Lancasters, and there’s something I need to tell you.”
I agreed to go down to the Sheriff’s Department. It seemed like the safest option. I drove my truck down there and fifteen minutes later I was in Deputy Emily Holland’s office. She was investigating contractors that worked for the MCP when I arrived. We shook hands and I sat down.
“You said you had something to tell me?” she said.
“Yes… I… was with the Lancasters two nights ago. I think they may have been… ahem… look, I know this sounds crazy, but I can’t believe this is coincidence—”
“What, exactly, do you think happened to them?”
“Angela Lancaster was the Intensive Care doctor who took care of the first victim. She called me Tuesday night and invited me to her ranch. I drove there and had dinner with her and her husband. And after that…” She waited for me to collect myself. “OK, here it is. We went up to the MCP compound. At dinner they had talked about wanting to ‘poke around’ and needing to find out more information. They were convinced the MCP was responsible for the two murders. I didn’t know what the plan was before we went up there. We took their Land Cruiser. We pulled off into some overgrowth and off-roaded until we were up against that big wall. Then… I was kind of in a state of shock but they both—I know how crazy this sounds—they both climbed over the wall, using ropes and a grappling hook of some kind.” Emily just looked at me, her expression betraying nothing, so I continued, “Anyways… they both went over the wall. I was kind of stunned and I sat in the car for an hour until they came back in a big hurry. Gary had been bitten by a dog on his right leg. They described hearing voices, but they couldn’t see anything in the dark, and when they finally tried to move, they were spotted, and the dogs chased them, and one bit Gary right before he came back over the wall.”
“What happened after that?”
“We went back to Tumbledown Ranch. I washed out Gary’s leg wound, and they were planning to get him rabies shots in Denver the next day. They had some video footage, but it was pretty poor quality, and you couldn’t see much.”
“Did you tell anyone else about this?”
“No, I haven’t talked about it with anyone. I hadn’t talked to the Lancasters since I left them that night. But how am I supposed to believe that they just happened to die in a housefire?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Emily said, “The M.E. report isn’t back, but my understanding was that there was a heating lamp in the chicken coop that caught fire to some hay, and the hay got blown onto the main structure. It was pretty windy that night.”
“There are two people in the morgue with biblical scripture branded all over them, and the Lancasters happen to die in a structure fire the night after they break into the MCP compound?” Again, Emily didn’t speak, but let me go on. “And what if I was on camera? What if they’re trying to identify the guy who waited outside the wall? Or what if the Lancasters gave my name to the MCP?”
“OK, let’s slow down. You’re safe here, that’s for certain. Let’s just slow down. I need to think for a moment. I think you should talk to Sheriff Edwards. Would you have a problem with that?”
“No. Unless you tell me he’s in the MCP.” She smiled.
“No, he’s not in the MCP.” She stood up, motioned for me to wait, and a few minutes later I was sitting in the Sheriff’s office.
“Do you want a lawyer present?” he asked. I said no. “Do we have permission to record this interview?” I said yes. I figured; the cards were all on the table. I hadn’t really done anything wrong—maybe they could get me on some misdemeanor, but I had only sat in the car and had never even entered the compound. Either way, I was past caring. I found it harder and harder to believe that this was some coincidental accident, and I told them everything I knew while Emily recorded it. I went slow, because I knew this was part of the official record, and I probably harped on the fact that I hadn’t known they were planning on performing cat burglary acrobatics, but regardless, it felt good to confess. When I was done, Emily nodded reassuringly.
“What now?” I asked. The Sheriff and Emily shared a glance. The Sheriff stood up and slowly paced behind his desk while Emily switched off the recorder.
“Now, Dr. O’Neill, we have several areas of the investigation to explore. But I’m sorry to say I can’t share them with you.”
“But what about me?” I asked. “I think I may be in danger. Isn’t that obvious?”
“I understand your concern… and I share it. Although I have to be honest, we don’t have the resources to put you in witness protection—we’re Hawk Claw Sheriff’s Department, not the FBI. Is there anywhere you can go—a hunting cabin, or anywhere you can hide out—some friends, maybe—where they wouldn’t find you?” I almost laughed at the question. Was he really telling me to go hide out in the woods until this all blows over? I thought about it. I had a few friends but no one who I could really turn to—not for something like this. Hey, I’m on the run from a murderous cult, can I crash at your place for a while?
“No,” I said, “No place to hide out that I can think of. I could go camping but I’m not crazy about going to places where there aren’t any witnesses for miles around.” The Sheriff and Emily looked at one another. He asked me to go back to her office and wait. I did as instructed. I felt kind of silly, like a child waiting to be picked up from the Principal’s office. On the one hand, the entire situation seemed totally absurd—a cult murdered the Lancasters and made it look like an accident—and I was next. On the other hand, it seemed like the most logical explanation. I was scared.
“What’s the plan?” I asked when Emily came back into her office.
“Come on, I’ve got a place you can hide out,” she said. She grabbed her uniform jacket, and we went outside. I squinted into the bright sunlight. I was looking for MCP cult members or some hooded character with a scythe lurking nearby. I saw nothing. Emily pointed to her SUV. “I’ll follow you to your house and you can collect some things. Bring enough in case this lasts a week.” I tried to process that idea—a week in hiding? I had to work a shift the day after tomorrow. This was not good. Once again, I oscillated between the suspicion that this was ridiculous overkill and the competing anxiety that the killer was sneaking up behind me at that precise moment.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” she smiled at me, “Haven’t you ever watched the movies? If I tell you, the bad guys might find out.” I didn’t have any response, so I just got into my pickup and started it up.
It was a short drive to my house. We went through the main road that goes through Hawk Claw and slowed for the traffic circle. I took the last turn off the circle and headed straight toward the mountains on Moose Track Road like I’d done a thousand times before. As I neared the sharp switchback that made a hard right and climbed p
ractically vertically, I looked back again to make sure there was a deputy vehicle behind me. Which was why I didn’t see the massive grey truck that came down from above and slammed into my side. It hit my F-150 just behind the driver door and I was suddenly off the side of the steep embankment and then I was rolling and rolling downward, and I thought, I guess I’m not just paranoid, and then it went impossibly dark.
Chapter 10
I have been knocked unconscious twice in my life. The first time I was nine and I slipped backwards on some wet concrete at the edge of a pool and had my bell rung. I remember my father coming and helping me get up and bringing me to the first aid stand, but there were gaps in my memory and even at the time I knew something was very wrong. I was talking, but I kept repeating myself, and I’m sure it was obvious I had a concussion. The second time I was knocked out, I was skiing at high speed when I hit a patch of man-made snow that made my skis stop—but I kept going. The last thing I remember, I was headed toward the woods on my stomach like a rocket. I have no memory of what came next but apparently, I cursed like a sailor for the next several hours and when the ski patroller asked me my age, I said I was nine. No, I was ten. “Wait-a-minute,” I said, “I’m eleven… no, I’m twelve.”
I was eighteen. The point I’m trying to make is that, while you can argue that there are all sorts of shades of grey when it comes to mild concussions, when you are truly knocked unconscious, there is no mistaking it. Even the patient—in their confused state—knows someone did a ‘hard reset.’ And I knew, when my truck rolled over and over—three and a half times before coming to rest on its roof—that I was not knocked unconscious. So, I couldn’t understand why it was so dark. I was hanging upside down by my seat belt, and the roof was a little caved in, and there were airbags seemingly everywhere, I was coughing from the dust in my lungs, and the lights from my dashboard were coming back into focus.
Instinctively, I checked myself for injuries—feeling my arms, legs, head, neck and chest. I was pretty sure nothing was broken, but I felt something wet on my forehead. I guessed it was blood.
I managed to get my right arm up to where the seatbelt release was. I knew better than to press it, because I would fall on my head, so I put my left arm out, but my hand was poked by something sharp. So, after fishing in my pocket for my cell phone, I managed to turn on the light to get my bearings. Now I could clearly see the crushed interior of my truck. And that’s when the shots rang out.
I heard two quick shots from up above. My heart started hammering in my chest. Had they shot Emily? Were they climbing down the embankment to finish me off? I scrambled as fast as I could—I had to get out of the truck. Now. I tried not to panic. I found my wool flannel jacket and threw it over the sharp metal underneath me. Then I pushed the red seatbelt release button and clumsily fell to the roof of my overturned vehicle.
At least now I was right-side up and had some light to work with—but I had gone over in a bog or a mud pool of some kind. The windshield and the windows seemed to be buried in mud. That’s why there was no light coming through. The truck had a ‘topper’ or ‘cap’ on the back, fastened to the pickup bed. Miraculously, it seemed to have stayed on. There was a sliver of light coming from back there. I pushed the button that operated the rear electric sliding window that allowed you to have access into the pickup bed from the cab. The little rectangular glass slid open. God bless the Ford Motor Company, I thought.
I started to climb through the tiny rear window. I was halfway between the cab and the bed of the pickup when there was a knock on the passenger door. I instinctively froze and held my breath. It occurred to me that I could ‘play dead’—but it wouldn’t look very convincing now. I’m going to die here, I thought. Damn the Ford Motor Company and this silly little window.
“Stephen?” I heard, “Are you OK? Can you hear me?” Relief washed over me. I started to breathe again. It was Emily. I pulled myself back into the cab of the truck. She shined a light inside. It became clear to me that the truck wasn’t buried in mud—it had just gotten coated while it rolled down the embankment. Emily scraped more mud off the windshield and put her face up to it.
“I’m OK,” I said, and then repeated “I’m OK,” as if trying to convince myself.
I climbed out with Emily’s help. My truck was totaled. I stood up and brushed myself down and did another once-over looking for injuries. Other than scrapes and bruises, and a small laceration to my forehead, I was fine.
“What happened?” I asked, “I heard shots.”
“He rammed me, too,” she said, “He sideswiped me, and I went off the road—but only a little bit, nothing like this—my car is back up top. I don’t think he knew I was following you. He swerved at me at the last second.” She was limping, and I could see she was hurt. “It’s nothing,” she said, “A sprained ankle. But he stopped after hitting me and put it in reverse. I think he was coming to finish me off. I fired two shots at him—one hit his side-view mirror, and the other went through the rear window. I don’t think I hit him, but it scared him, and he drove off quick.”
“Did you get a license plate?”
“He had covered it up. It was a grey or silver Chevy. It was an MCP truck, they all look the same. I don’t know why he even bothered covering up the plates.”
“Wow,” I said, pausing to take that in. “What do we do now?”
“Now, I call it in,” she said. But then she seemed to pause. “Or maybe not.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, incredulous.
“Come on,” she said, “We’ve got a long walk. If you’ve got anything you absolutely must have from your truck, get it now. We can’t go to your house.”
I was still reeling from the roller coaster ride that I’d been on, but I knew better than to argue. I made sure I had my phone, and wallet, and I reached into the cab of my truck and got my keys and my jacket. I took a moment to say goodbye to my truck. It had been good to me.
“You can give it a proper burial later,” she said, and we started off through the bog. I wondered where we were going, but there was no time to ask questions. I walked behind Emily, who, despite her injury, was moving quickly over the rough terrain. There was no trail. We were, at times, up to our knees in mosquito infested muddy waters. It was impossible to know, when you stepped on a patch of mud, if it would be solid ground just below the surface, or three feet of liquid. Pretty soon we were both covered in brown goop.
We went along like that for thirty minutes until we finally reached a road. Emily crouched low. There wasn’t a lot of cover—the forest was not very dense in that area. We waited and listened. No cars or noises. Then I followed her as we dashed downward, sticking to the road for a bit until she veered left into the woods again. I had no idea where we were going. We went deep into the cover of the pine trees and I expected her to slow down or explain but she just kept going for another half hour. I was getting tired. I was on the verge of asking her to stop when we came out onto a dirt driveway. We were approaching a large log cabin. It had a two-car garage and neatly trimmed hedges demarcating the yard. As I followed Emily up the steps and onto the porch, I whispered, “Umm… Deputy Holland? What—”
Then the door opened and a small woman of about sixty opened the door.
“Hi, Mom,” Emily said, “We need some help.”
Burke had to admit that the Seraphim was, in many ways, the perfect soldier. He lived to serve. It seemed he had no limits to his energy or his ruthlessness. Burke was proud of the man.
As for the Reverend Marcus Thompson, Burke felt nothing but contempt. He had tried to save him—he had warned him countless times, but the man was incorrigible. He supposed he should feel pity for him, but he did not. He had thought of this moment many times, and now that it had finally arrived, a tiny piece of him lamented the fact that he felt nothing. Well, not nothing, he thought. I feel…satisfaction.
“Do you have any last words?” asked Burke.
Reverend Marcus Thompson looked at him through half-l
idded eyes. There was fury behind them, but also fear and hopelessness. He could see that there was no escape.
They were inside the Hawk Claw Silver Mine, situated three quarters of the way up Mount Mariposa. They were in the middle of nowhere, and even if there had been hikers out today, they would not have ventured near the mine. It was cordoned off with chain link fencing and gates with massive padlocks. It was a good place to meet your death—accidentally or otherwise.
Reverend Thompson’s hands were tied behind him, and his feet were bound together. Then, perhaps unnecessarily, the Seraphim had duct taped him from head to toe, using several rolls of it—until he resembled a grey Egyptian mummy. Only his head had been spared. He couldn’t move his arms, or his legs, but he could stand, and right now he was standing on the edge of oblivion. Directly behind him—perhaps two feet away, was a cliff that went 500 feet (150 m) straight down.
This was the notorious Hawk Claw Silver Mine and in the previous decades there had been several deaths associated with it. First there were the industrial mining accidents during its years of operation and then later, after it had closed, the tragedies because curious adventure seekers had refused to heed the ‘keep out’ signs. Everyone knew about the mine, because it had once been a source of great wealth, and when it had closed, it had brought ruin upon the community. Anyone who grew up in Hawk Claw knew of the mine’s reputation as a haunted place where horrible things would get you, if you were stupid enough to go there.
Burke smiled. He had heard the silly stories—of the ghost of the miner’s daughter that still roamed the caverns—and of the river at the bottom of the mine that would carry you straight to hell, if you fell in. He knew the local legends, and he also knew the truth. Reverend Thompson would find himself in hell, alright—but the bottom of this shaft didn’t contain a river. It contained abandoned industrial equipment, a long-since defunct elevator, and the skeletons of more than a few former MCP members.
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