“Tom, there hasn’t been a murder like this in the valley since cowboy and Indian days. Sure every ten years or so, a drunk may stab another drunk in a bar fight or something like that, but nobody dies. A double murder of a gentle couple by an unknown perp? That’s unheard of.”
Tom stood silently. It didn’t make sense. Why the Jameses? They were in their late 60s, mostly retired, not rich, but doing okay. Tom saw them occasionally, usually at gathering time, when they exchanged each other’s cattle, the ones that had wandered onto the other’s permit …
“God.” Tom slumped to the floor.
“What?” Father Bob could hear the realization in Tom’s voice.
“They thought Garly was the one who saw them.”
“What?” It was Father Bob’s turn to be puzzled. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Where I saw those devil worshippers! There is an area where four cattle permits come together—like the four corner states—mine, the Jameses’, the Martins’ and the Whitmeyers’ come together in that area. I must have been — I was on the Jameses’ area, maybe a mile or two in. I was after a calf …” He couldn’t talk; his throat hurt and his body was shaking.
“Holy shit.”
“They’ll be back! They’ll know they got the wrong people! They know my face!” Tom didn’t realize he was shouting. Farley cowered under the table.
“They will realize they screwed up, but the whole deal was a screwup, because they lost one of their own. There are cops all over. They won’t try again, not for awhile anyway.”
This last statement was said with uncertainty, but Tom didn’t notice. “What am I going to do?” Tom was mostly talking to himself. It could have been, should have been his house that was buzzing with cops and reporters. His body and Cami’s that were going to the morgue—the kids—he couldn’t go there. He held his hand tight over his eyes.
“Tom.” Father Bob listened. Nothing. “Tom.” More firmly. “Tom! I need you to be strong now.” Still there was silence. “A fit of remorse isn’t going to bring the Jameses back and it certainly won’t help you keep your family or anyone else safe!” This he said with more harshness that he intended, but it worked.
“You’re right—I just—I guess I’m in shock.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Farley cuddled up to him on the floor.
“I’m exhausted and I know you are too. Instead of going to sleep when I got back from your place, I went surfing on the net and I learned a bit more about our devil worshipper. He’s from Vegas.”
Tom straightened at this. “Yeah?” This did not surprise him.
“Yeah. This is a very powerful, wealthy family we are dealing with—I half think we should go to the cops or the FBI.” Father Bob was pacing in his study and his gaze landed on an old black-and-white photo of Father O’Clary. He recalled a saying O’Clary had about cops. What was it? Something about temptation being a cop’s worst enemy and how O’Clary thought many cops had gone over to that Star Wars phrase, “the dark side.” “But maybe not. I’m not sure what to do. But I do have some vacation time coming, and the bishop has been bitching at me to take some time off. They don’t know me, Tom. I could go down there. They’re having a public memorial for that nasty baby killer on Friday. I could go ask a few questions.”
“No!” Tom’s gut lurched at the idea. “You know what they’re about—the evil, who knows what kind of power they can generate. This is my fucking mess. You’ve already done more than I can repay you for—I can’t let you go.” Tom ran a hand through his hair. It was hard to imagine how the day at the rock had escalated, when he had felt sure at the time that it was the worst day of his life. It was going to get worse; he thought he could put money on it.
Father Bob’s voice was soft, but even. “I’m already involved. These snakes have ventured into my territory to commit the most unholy of ceremonies and kill an innocent. And now they have slithered back and taken two more lives—people I considered to be kind and generous.” He held the photo of O’Clary in his hand now as he looked out the window across the green of his backyard. “You know, Tom, if they had it right, what would have happened?”
Tom swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to answer. “Yes.”
But Father Bob went on, “They would have killed you and Cami, maybe the kids too—”
“Stop it.” Tom didn’t want to hear.
“But I doubt it. They probably would have taken the kids. Tied them up and … they would especially want Landon.”
“Stop!” Tom didn’t want his fear made audible. “Okay, go if you want! It’s your choice though. I would not ask it of you—I’ve got enough on my head already.”
“Don’t worry, Tom. I won’t do anything yet—except get some time off. I’m so tired right now, I can hardly think straight. And we need clarity.” Announcing his fatigue seemed to underscore it, and the priest flopped into the chair near his desk. He would arrange his time off and then go to bed early, really early.
“Yes,” said Tom. He felt wrung out, but his mind was writhing with this new information about Vegas, and his stomach was hurting with the deaths of the Jameses and the threat to his family.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Tom.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“Get some rest.”
Tom felt like asking the priest if he was insane, but the line was dead. He pulled himself off the floor and staggered into the bedroom. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It hurt to think; he so didn’t want to be himself right then. He pulled Cami’s rosary off the bed post and wrapped it around his hand. He held the crucifix between his thumb and forefinger. What was that saying? There are no atheists in foxholes? Somehow or other, although he wouldn’t have believed it was possible, Tom fell asleep again.
Chapter 19
Weasel had washed his hands off as best he could and was now cruising at seventy five. The traffic was sparse and he had not seen one cop. He had been chain smoking since he left the ranch. Hell, he probably had six hours before he got back to the city, so he had much more time to think about things than he cared for.
The radio played on, distracting him for awhile, but at last he grew sick of the worry tapping in the back of his head and switched it off.
He hadn’t really liked Steve. He had been pushy—a braggy, know-it-all type, with an ego that matched his girth. He was a great big pig who would order a huge meal of steak, baked potato, salad and bread and eat it all—even the steak fat—sopping up the juices with well buttered bread. And if Weasel couldn’t finish his meal, Steve would eat that too.
Even though Steve was fat, he carried it well, and his suit hid a lot of his bulk. And he could still get the women. That was what amazed Weasel. They must have been attracted to that tough guy persona. Weasel wondered if they tried to run away once they were alone with Steve and the clothes started to come off and the blubber was unveiled. AHHHHHH! It’s too big to be human! Weasel chuckled to himself and shook his head.
Yeah, old Steve had been a pig, but he had been in charge, and though Weasel resented this at times, he had mostly liked it. Weasel was a soldier, not a general. He liked to be told what to do and be given parameters. A job. Going from point A to point B, getting the work done and then heading home to his apartment, his aquarium full of fish, and solitude. Whether he had to go out to the grocery store or out to whack someone, Weasel found them about the same—unpleasant moments he had to spend around people. He would much rather be alone in the peace of his rooms, watching movies on HBO or playing online chess against someone who was far away, nameless and faceless.
But now he was in charge. There would be no phone service until he was almost outside of Vegas, so it wasn’t like he could call the boss and ask her what she wanted. No. And that was good, because the longer he could put off that pleasantry, the better. The best thing to do would be to solve the problem of the mess in the back himself. The boss liked it
when they took care of things and she didn’t have to deal with it. As long as it was done right and she wouldn’t ever hear about it again.
So. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He was on the wrong side of Vegas to drop him in Lake Mead, but there were miles of emptiness here. Most people never veered off the road unless they had to piss, and most of the brush here was about three inches high, making that business an immodest affair. Three inches of brush probably wouldn’t camouflage Steve well either.
He decided that up ahead around the old town of Goldfield would be a good spot. There were lots of dirt roads leading off the highway in all directions. One of those was sure to pass an old, abandoned mining shaft that was deep enough to hide a body (or two halves of a body) even a porker like Steve. He would dump him, and that would be one less thing for the boss to be pissed about.
Weasel lit a cigarette, feeling a little better. The boss was scary, but with Steve in charge of the failed operation and now dead, Weasel could be the hero, the one who cleaned up the mess as best he could and returned to Vegas to serve her again.
Chapter 20
Susan turned in front of the full-length mirror. Her funeral dress was sleek and showed her form well; it was black with a nod to Ash. Poor Ash. But how fortunate for her that the cowboy had shown up and propelled her to leadership position. It would have taken her years and perhaps a move to a different region to reach this point had Ash lived.
She added a black hat, big, but fashionable with a veil. When she added sunglasses and the veil it was almost like a mask, which was good, since she didn’t know if she could stay solemn through this memorial. To be in charge at last! The phone rang and her smiled faded. Maybe it was Steve calling to let her know the cowboy and his kin were dead. She hoped so. To bag the cowboy so quickly, almost instantly, would make her shine before the group and confirm her temporary position. She was ready for this post. She picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Please tell me you had nothing to do with this debacle down in Lyon County.” Uncle never minced words.
“I don’t know wha—”
“It must be a slow news day, because that’s all that’s on the news channels.” He sounded beyond disgusted. “Turn on your TV.”
As she turned the set on, he asked her again, “Answer me, did you send a team down to Lyon County?”
Susan thumbed through the channels. The FOX station was talking about the weather, but on the bottom of the screen, the ticker read “Bizarre double murder in Lyon County, one assailant presumed dead.”
Susan’s stomach turned on itself. “I did, but this might have nothing to do with them.”
“I thought so. Who did you send? Steve and Weasel?”
“Yeah.” She had not seen this one coming. How could some hicks get the drop on her guys? They were professionals.
“This is all I fucking need right now.”
“I know. I didn’t plan on this happening.” She tried to stay cool. “Besides, we don’t know for sure this has anything to do—”
“Dream on! Pull your head out of your ass! You’re on such a power trip you can’t even think straight. This kind of thing doesn’t happen out there in Cow County, USA and you know it. Let’s just hope they don’t bring all the cops straight to us.”
“I’ll take care of this—myself.” Susan felt like screaming; her moment of glory was about to be snatched from her, but at least the cowboy was dead. She was about to say this to Uncle and though better of it.
“You’ll have to.” He hung up in her ear. Susan stared at the reflection in her mirror; the black seemed more than appropriate now. Couldn’t anyone do anything right! She was surrounded by incompetents.
For now there was nothing for her to do but think. Steve and Weasel would not have cell signal until they were nearly back to Vegas. But then again, maybe it wasn’t Steve and Weasel anymore, but one or the other. Why would the report say, “One assailant believed dead”? There must have been a puddle of blood left behind or a blood trail leading to their getaway? She couldn’t believe it. The pair of them must have hundreds of kills between them and they had the element of surprise. But then again, maybe the cowboy had been on edge, and he certainly could shoot. She remembered the intensity of his face, his eyes that stared on Ash like an eagle, a furious eagle. Eyes without fear. It chilled her even now. Well, at least he was dead and his family too. Even if the mission was a fuck up, at least Ash had been avenged. She began to reframe it—figuring how best to present this to the group. She could pull it off, if Uncle stayed out of it.
Weasel followed the speed limit exactly. Any cop that pulled him over would have to be a dead cop, and he couldn’t afford that at all. He eased into the outskirts of Goldfield, knowing that all of these hick cops like to set up speed traps near these little towns to catch speeding gamblers bound for Vegas. He saw a well-used dirt road that led off to the west and into the hills. It looked smooth enough even for a city car. Checking the rear view and ahead, he saw no traffic, but he signaled anyway and bumped off the highway onto the road. There wasn’t much out here in the way of brush—just lots of rock and more rock and the Joshua trees spaced out like sentinels of this weird, empty world.
Weasel imagined the best mine shafts would be on the mountain, deep in the rock, but he didn’t know a whole lot about them. Once in a while, in the news, you would hear about someone falling hundreds of feet to their death in a shaft. Usually it was teenage boys out screwing around where they didn’t belong. He just hoped he could find a deep one, close. He would drop old Steve, actually both halves of Steve, and Steve would disappear. So deep that the smell would not even reach the top, and if it did, maybe passersby would just think a wild burro fell in.
It took half an hour to reach the hills that he had seen from the road, and the road had been good enough, but now sharp rocks and dips were occurring often enough that he worried about damaging the car or worse, getting stuck.
“Come on, come on!” he whispered urgently to himself. He lit another cigarette and slowed the car to a crawl. If he went slowly, he could make it. The sun wouldn’t go down for lots of hours yet; he knew he was being impatient.
Almost as if rewarding his thoughts, he came around a turn and into a little wash where there were at least eight different diggings. Barbed wire and little warning signs surrounded three of them, which told Weasel they were deep or dangerous. He parked the car and made his way up the side of the hill. The rocks and dust and scratchy bushes were ruining his shoes, but he was past caring. His whole ensemble looked as though he had been working in a meat shop, a very filthy meat shop.
He was out of breath by the time he got to the closest digging. The barbed wire sagged and the sign hanging from it by a bit of rusty wire was badly faded. He could still read “Abandoned mine shafts are dangerous. Keep out!” The footing looked loose around the edge, and Weasel could see he would have to step over the wire and get fairly close to the edge in order to heave Steve into it. He tossed a rock in and listened. It bounced off the sides a couple of times and then there was silence. Weasel guessed he couldn’t hear it land and was about throw a bigger rock in when he heard a muted “plunk.”
“Shit,” he breathed. This was just what he wanted, but the footing sucked and that made him nervous; he looked down at the car. He didn’t want to drive closer, because he was pretty sure he would get stuck. That meant two uphill treks of about two hundred and fifty yards with the two halves of old Steve.
He could sure use a drink or three. A dirty martini sounded so good right now. That and a shower. It had to be over one hundred and five degrees easy and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. His stomach moaned at him, forgetting the gore he would soon have to deal with in the trunk.
“FUCK!” Weasel pulled the cig from his lips and threw it down the shaft. It was better to just get on with it than to stand here and sweat thinking about it. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve and trudged down through the sticker bushes to the car.
&
nbsp; He popped the trunk and stepped back, holding his breath. It was too early for Steve-o to be stinking to high heaven, but Weasel knew that three hundred pounds of dead would still have an odor. Weasel at last had to take a breath, and he tried to just breathe through his mouth, but somehow that smell got into his nose a bit. He gagged. He had cleaned up killing sites and disposed of bodies before, but this was too personal and also the worst mess he’d had to deal with alone. He lit another cig and snuffed the smoke up his nose. There. If he could just keep the smoke close to his nose and through his nose, he wouldn’t have to endure that smell.
He decided to haul the bottom half of Steve first, because that was the heavier half, and Weasel felt that getting the biggest chunk of work done first was always easier on him psychologically. The rug he had wrapped Steve in was wide and good sized, which helped out with the dragging part. Weasel could get the two ends of the rug together. The rug was still wet and the edges kept slipping out of his hands, revealing the grisly sight. Weasel tried not to look at the mess inside, but his eyes were disobedient and he kept seeing more than he wanted. At last he made a death grip on the edges of the rug and staggered, bent over, dragging the bundle up the hill. He moved backwards, leveraging his live one hundred and fifty against the dead one hundred fifty some-odd. He felt his back screaming in protest, his muscles in the back of his thighs thrumming and his hands going numb from holding on so tightly to the rug, but he would not stop until he got the package to the edge of the hole.
Weasel collapsed by the worthless little barbwire fence at the edge of the shaft. He still held on to the rug, because he didn’t want to look at the horror, but he relaxed his hands a little. They were beginning to cramp up and so he allowed himself a few seconds to sit and gasp, cigarette nearly burned down in the corner of his mouth.
The Sacrifice Page 9