Crimson Lake Road (Desert Plains)

by Victor Methos

  She nodded. “Okay, I agree. Three days.”

  At the door, she turned and said, “By the way, you’re one hell of a trial attorney.”

  “You too. I’m not wishing you good luck, though.”

  She grinned. “Same.”

  She texted Tara that she’d be home soon as she walked to her car. She hadn’t even gone inside her house when the Uber dropped her off earlier.

  But when she pulled into the driveway, she was surprised to see that all the lights were off.

  She picked up her phone, but Tara hadn’t replied. Yardley opened the tracking app, expecting to see that she was at Stacey’s house. But the blinking blue dot showed her phone in the Old Strip. Once the cultural hub of Las Vegas, it was the place where celebrities had come to make appearances at the casinos and be seen eating at the various restaurants that were paying them in either cash or drugs to do so. It was glitz and glamour and money—everything Hollywood was—but with a little bit of a darker underbelly. Just a little more permissiveness than elsewhere. So it had come as a shock to all the residents when the area died off, slowly bleeding all its business to the corporations that moved into what would become the new Strip.

  Like all things in life, Yardley thought, it was cyclical. The Old Strip was now regaining its reputation as being the place where the true partiers went. Those who wanted to do whatever they felt like while the police left them alone.

  She zoomed in on the map and caught her breath when she recognized the apartment complex. The Red Rock Downs. It was the type of place where the police were called several times a week and knew most of the residents on a first-name basis. She guessed she’d probably prosecuted twenty cases out of this complex.

  Tara had absolutely no good reason to be down there.

  She backed out of the driveway and sped down the street.

  63

  Tara kept her eyes on the door as the men did the same. If there were more men, she knew she would be in real trouble. The gun on the desk was maybe ten feet away. If she rushed for it and Vasili was distracted, she might be able to get it before he did. Might. Otherwise, he would just put a bullet into her. Though she could tell from the faces of the other men that they weren’t going to kill her until they knew for sure whether she was bluffing or not.

  Another knock.

  No one moved. Finally, Vasili nodded to the tall guard, and he unlocked the door. He opened it only a crack, but it was enough for Tara to see out. Her mother stood there in the dim illumination of the exterior light next to the apartment door.

  Damn it, no, she thought.

  Yardley’s eyes rested on her, and though there was no reaction that most people would have picked up on, Tara could tell her breath quickened.

  “That’s my daughter. Move aside.”

  The bodyguard didn’t know what to do until Vasili said, “Let her in.”

  The bodyguard opened the door and stepped to the side. Yardley walked in and looked at Tara. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Tara replied, glancing to Vasili.

  Yardley stood in the middle of the room, and then there was a sound Tara didn’t recognize at first because it was so inappropriate to the situation. Laughter.

  Vasili had tilted his head back and was laughing so hard he’d put his hand on his belly as though in a cartoon. When he stopped, he crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands across his stomach.

  “I should have seen the resemblance,” he said, staring at Tara. He turned back to her mother and said, “You look beautiful as ever, Jessica. I think the last time I saw you, you were at my gallery with Eddie, who was trying to convince me to buy a painting he had made of Yosemite.”

  “I remember that painting,” she said calmly. “I hated it.”

  “Me too. It was too dark. The sky was gray, the river was almost black, the trees looked twisted and menacing . . .” He picked up his cigarette and took another puff. “He never saw that part of his paintings. Isn’t it odd what an artist sees in his own work and what the rest of the world sees? He put his entire being into each painting but was completely blind to it.”

  Yardley glanced at Tara. “Whatever her father’s gotten her into, it ends now. I’m taking my daughter and leaving.”

  Vasili turned to Tara and ran his eyes over her body. “Eddie’s daughter . . . amazing. I’m assuming he’s the one who told you where all these paintings were?”

  Tara said nothing.

  He sighed and turned back toward her mother. “Here’s the problem, Jessica. Your daughter has apparently poisoned us.”

  Yardley looked at her. “She what?”

  Vasili shrugged. “She says she sprayed some . . . what did you call it? I don’t know, some toxin on the doorknobs and my desk. To be honest, I’m feeling it on my skin. She says it’s going to start paralyzing us soon but that she has an antidote.”

  Yardley faced her daughter. “Is that true?”

  The look of shock and horror on her mother’s face pierced Tara. She had never seen her look so disappointed. Tara swallowed and looked down.

  “Tara . . . is it true?”

  “No.”

  “Did you do anything to them?”

  She nodded. “I came earlier and sprayed everywhere with a liquid form of Mucuna pruriens.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a type of legume that causes severe itching.”

  Vasili burst out laughing again. “Itching powder? You tried to swindle me out of two million dollars using itching powder?” He laughed again.

  Yardley looked at Vasili and said, “I’m taking her and we’re leaving. This never happened as far as I’m concerned.”

  Vasili watched her through the thin gray haze of smoke, and his eyes narrowed. “I still want the paintings.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not some undergrad photographer anymore, Vasili. I’m a prosecutor at the District Attorney’s Office. If you try to stop me, I’ll have you arrested. Is that clear?”

  He watched her a moment, then nodded. Yardley said, “Let’s go, Tara.”

  They walked out of the apartment, and her mother appeared calm and unconcerned, but Tara noticed that she wouldn’t turn her back to the men until they were outside. Once they got down the stairs, her mother hurriedly walked to her car, and Tara followed.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Yardley nearly shouted. As far back as Tara could remember, her mother had never raised her voice at her.

  Tara kept her eyes low and said nothing.

  “I can’t believe you would be so stupid.” Yardley exhaled loudly and looked back at the apartment complex. “Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t you have some sarcastic remark for me?”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “Get in the damn car.”

  “I drove my car. It’s down the street.”

  “Then get it right now and go straight home. Straight. Home.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Tara walked toward her car. She saw her mom start her car and pull into the street and wait for her. Tara got into the car and pulled away from the curb. Her mother sped up toward an intersection, and Tara followed her about a block and then let other cars in between them. When she was certain it was difficult for her mother to see her, she turned right on a side street and then went back to the Red Rock Downs.

  She parked in front of the building and went up to the third floor. She opened the door. All the men were still there. They were scratching at their skin and speaking in agitated tones. They watched her as she slipped a few small vials out of the pockets of her hoodie. She tossed them on the carpeted floor near the men, who stood there in silence.

  “It’s not itching powder,” she said coolly. “Drink up, and try not to die.”

  She turned and hurried back to her car.

  64

  Yardley was sitting on her front porch when Tara pulled into the driveway and parked. Her daughter came over to her and sat dow
n. They were silent a long while. Tara had her hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, and it made her look so much younger. It reminded Yardley that she was still a child.

  “How long have you been corresponding with him?”

  Tara was silent for a while. “About a year and a half. But I only sold the first painting like six months ago. I put the money in an account. I haven’t touched it.”

  “How many have there been?”

  “Just a couple, and not for much money. But he said this guy, Vasili, was a major art dealer and would pay a lot for his work. He offered me two million dollars for three of his paintings.”

  Yardley shook her head. “Why on earth would you think this was a good idea, Tara?”

  She swallowed and looked away. “I did it for you.”

  “For me?”

  She nodded. “I don’t think you’re happy, Mom. That’s why we’re moving and you’re quitting. You think you’re quitting because you’re sick of what you do, but you’re just not happy and you don’t know why. You think going somewhere else will make it better, but it won’t. I thought if you at least didn’t have to worry about money anymore, it might help you.”

  Yardley reached out and put her hand on her daughter’s knee. “Tara, what makes me happy is you. What if something happened to you? Did you think of that? You want to protect me, well, what would’ve happened to me if I’d lost you? Especially in that way. Shot in some dirty apartment because of your father.”

  “He told me it would be easy and nothing would happen.”

  The anger that rose in Yardley seemed to almost burn through her skin, and she had to close her eyes a moment and just breathe.

  “Tara, look at me . . . whatever that man tells you is a lie. Whatever you think he’s doing to help you, or to help me, only helps himself. If for nothing else, he’ll just use us to amuse himself. You can’t trust him any more than you could trust a snake. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “I do now,” she said sternly. Yardley got the impression that her daughter was holding something back, something she didn’t want to tell her, but she wasn’t going to press the issue now.

  Tara said, “So you’ve got some tracker on my phone, huh? I figured you would.”

  “I’m sorry. It was just for your own protection.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think I’m in a spot right now to be pissed, am I?”

  Yardley sighed and looked out at the moon bathing the street in a pale glow. She took her daughter’s hand and rose. “Come on.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To have a bonfire.”

  The tinder encircled the paintings. They were far out in the desert behind their house, and Yardley looked around to make sure she didn’t see any cars, not that anyone would stop out here anyway. A breeze was blowing, and it put the flame of the lighter out a few times. When it stuck, she pressed it to the wet portions of the paintings that had been soaked in lighter fluid. The entire cluster lit and smoldered briefly before bursting into flame.

  Yardley stood away from the fire, feeling its heat on her face and hands as she stared unblinkingly at the flames. Tara stood next to her and said, “Do you know what the proudest moment of my life was?”

  Yardley looked at her but said nothing.

  “It was when I got a full ride to UNLV with a stipend. One of the youngest people ever admitted to a mathematics doctoral program. Of course I wanted to share it with you, but . . . what I kept thinking was, I wish my father could see it. I just kept thinking I wished he was there when I opened that letter.” She looked at her mother. “The greatest moment of my life, and all I could think about was that I wished the person in the world that would care the least was there. Why do you think I did that?”

  Yardley took her daughter’s hand. She didn’t have an answer for her. So they both turned back to the fire and watched as it consumed Eddie Cal’s surviving paintings.

  Your work is dead, Yardley thought, and I hope to hell you soon follow.

  65

  Yardley texted Baldwin after Tara had gone to bed. He replied that he was having a difficult time finding a sketch artist and it might be tomorrow morning until they sent someone out to talk to Leonard.

  Yardley lay in bed and drank a glass of merlot to help her sleep.

  It was just past five in the morning when her vibrating phone woke her. She didn’t remember falling asleep but knew she had dreamed, though she couldn’t remember her dream. She was still fully dressed.

  “Yes?” she said, sleep still in her voice.

  “Jess,” Baldwin said quietly, “I’m going to text you an address, and I’d like you to come down here.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Leonard. I left to find a sketch artist, and by the time I got back, he was gone. But we found him now by pinging his cell phone.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a cabin on Crimson Lake Road.”

  66

  Yardley stood in the middle of the street, staring at the cabin. The spinning blues and reds of the patrol cars flickered in the dawn. The medical examiner’s people had just arrived, and the forensic technicians were scurrying around the cabin. Every once in a while, she would see the bright flare of a flash camera.

  Baldwin ducked under the yellow barrier tape and approached her. He turned toward the cabin, too, without a word, and they both stood in silence for what seemed like a long time.

  “Exactly?” she finally said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. He copied the third painting perfectly. Do you want to go in before they take him away?”

  “No.” She watched some forensic technicians go into the cabin carrying what looked like fishing tackle boxes. “Cason, I only told two people about our meeting with Leonard.”

  “Who?”

  “Dylan Aster and Jude Chance. But Chance called me as I was leaving the halfway house and asked for an update on the case. He called right as I was leaving. Like he was watching.”

  Baldwin’s eyes never left the cabin. “I’ll pay him a visit.”

  Only when her eyes watered did she realize she’d been gazing at the cabin without blinking. “I’m going home, Cason.”

  “Jess—”

  “I’m fine. Dylan already stipulated to a continuance of the trial. I’m going to take the three days.” She watched as the ME’s people went in with a stretcher. “Maybe more.”

  As she drove home, Yardley felt a pain she hadn’t felt in a long time. Something between loss and physical illness. Something that made her body feel like it could fall over and not have the strength to lift itself up again.

  That man was dead because of her. Because she’d talked to him.

  The headache had turned into a migraine and wouldn’t leave her alone. She stopped at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and got some ibuprofen and juice, then took four of the pills while sitting in her car. The image of the third painting kept forcing its way into her mind. She pictured Leonard in place of the black figure, his organs slick with blood as he hung from the ceiling.

  She’d made a mess of this case and hadn’t helped anyone. There was no reason she should have prosecuted this. She wished she’d retired at the time she had planned.

  Michael Zachary would likely be released, and it wasn’t even certain yet who he was working with or why, or if he truly was innocent in all this. Whichever prosecutor inherited the case would have to play catch-up with any new suspects, but Zachary’s case would be over. Double jeopardy attached the second the jury was sworn in, and he couldn’t be prosecuted again for the same crimes. If he was the Crimson Lake Executioner, or one of them, he’d just gotten away with it.

  Yardley had to pull over to the side of the road. She massaged her temples. The migraine felt like it could crack her skull open. A tall billboard near her advertised an upscale vodka, and it read, MAY THE NIGHT NEVER END, BABY.

  She took a few deep breaths and pulled into traffic again.

  67

  When she arrived ho
me, she saw a black Mercedes parked at the curb in front of her house. She pulled into the driveway and got out. River was sitting on her porch steps. Yardley sat next to her.

  “Sorry for just dropping by this early. I wanted to catch you before court.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Yardley looked up to the sky, which was now filled with gray-black clouds. Farther off over the desert, she could see rain falling. “I got the trial postponed.”

  “Why?”

  “I found a man who claimed to have seen Harmony Pharr and then later told us he fabricated it. Someone paid him to call it in to make it seem like she ran away. The police wouldn’t look too closely anymore if they really believed she ran away.” She paused. “That man was just found dead in a cabin on Crimson Lake Road. Hung from the ceiling.”

  A long silence.

  “I’m so sorry, Jess.”

  Yardley nodded. She had been wondering what River would say. If she would be elated that Zachary likely wasn’t who’d tried to kill her. Instead, she had attempted to comfort Yardley.

  “They’ll probably end up dismissing the case against Zachary,” Yardley said. “It’s not certain he wasn’t working with someone, but I don’t see how they can go forward after this goes public.”

  “They?”

  “I’m not prosecuting this anymore.”

  River nodded but didn’t say anything awhile. “What are you gonna do?” she finally asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not going back. I’m done with this damn profession.”

  “You blame yourself for that man and the girl?”

  “This was my case from the beginning.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was his. Whoever killed Harmony and her mother, and whoever tried to kill me. It was always his case. He was in control, not you.”

  Yardley shook her head. “I could’ve done something different.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped, looking at River. She turned away again, staring out into the street. “I don’t know.”