He showered and dressed and prepared for the day. The bishop’s office was supposed to call today and let him know which priest would be filling in for him and when he would arrive. He pulled out a couple of suitcases and his exorcism bag, its weight much reduced since his visit to Tom’s ranch. He restocked it from his pantry and reorganized it, making sure he had all that he needed, double-checking for his volume of exorcism prayers and the Bible. He knew most of both by heart, but he always liked to have backup. Last, he brought his silver .357 from the top of his closet. He supposed it might be wrong for a priest to own such a gun—heck, any gun—but Father O’Clary had left it to him in his will with a note saying, “You are not supposed to kill, Bobby, but there is nothing wrong with protecting yourself and others. You can always shoot them in the kneecaps.”
It was a beautiful weapon, and Father Bob cleaned and oiled it regularly. He liked to shoot it too and often went out into the desert for a little target practice. He had never had to use the gun, not even back in New York, and it had spent most of its years with him in the top of this closet, these last fourteen years. But today as he packed it in its special case with the ammo pouch, he felt like he might actually need it in Vegas. He had heard of devil worshippers before and talked to priests whose churches had been broken into by them. Usually only items were stolen—Bibles, unconsecrated hosts, and in one case, the cross had been taken from behind the altar. He had heard of worse things, but usually these were happenings far across the country. What Tom had seen—the child sacrifice on the mountain in the high desert—was horrifically scary. And if the double murder of the Jameses was linked, and he was sure it was, the danger would be tangible, like entering a snake pit.
He finished packing, found a map of Vegas and put it into a folder with the other information he had printed off the internet about the Taylor family. It would be a helluva long drive to Vegas, but he needed time to think and round out his plan. He decided to book his room at the Azteca, the main casino owned by the Taylor family and also their corporate headquarters. The public memorial for the baby killer was being held there in one of the convention centers. Hell, if he was going in to learn something, he might as well go directly into the den. He had been in this casino before. It was a dazzling, huge structure based on the Pyramid of the Moon in Mexico; he could remember being excited to see the inside. But the casino had a suffocating tomb-like feeling. Despite the high ceiling, Father Bob had felt claustrophobic. It was too dark, like the warren of some earth-digging animal, and there did not seem to be enough air. Adding in the thick, milling crowds of tourists, the veil of cigarette smoke harsh in his eyes and throat, and the relentless din of the gaming machines and it was hard to breathe. He had only been inside for ten minutes before he had to head for the exit and outside. He stood there in the blistering heat of a Vegas afternoon, sucking in air like he had just run the hundred-yard dash. It was dirty Vegas air, hot as an oven, but he couldn’t get enough. He had vowed to never go back.
Now, knowing what he did, he realized it must have been the evil that radiated from the core of the place that had choked him. True enough, the design was dark and awful and the air was stagnant, but there was more to it than that. Why hadn’t he realized it? He too had become more sensitive to evil and the “beasties” as Father O’Clary had called them, although he had nowhere near the abilities of the old man. Perhaps he had just been so overwhelmed it had not occurred to him? Whatever. Now he was booking himself into Hotel Hell. He just hoped he could breathe.
Chapter 27
Susan now did the simple thing she should have done before she sent Steve and Weasel on their mission. She began to Google the names on the government range reports. She already knew who the Jameses were … she looked at the map that came with the report. She had made a star on the spot that marked the sacrifice. It was at least a half mile inside the James allotment; it was obvious now that in her hurry to impress the group with vengeance on Ash’s murderer that she had been incredibly dense. The cowboy could be anyone. A hired hand working for the Jameses, a recreational rider out for a jaunt, a hired hand for one of the neighboring permits—hell, she supposed he could even be a rustler.
There were four allotments that butted together. One belonged to the Jameses. The next one belonged to something called Lasso Holdings, Inc. She Googled this, and it brought up the name of a hotel baron she knew. His cattle and ranches would be in the care of hired people, and she would have to make phone calls to learn their names.
The third allotment belonged to Thomas and Camille White. It was a common name, Tom White, and she was deluged with results, but when she added “Lyon County” and “cattle,” she found a promising link, “Tom White Named President of Cattlemen’s Association.”
She clicked the link and laughed out loud at the results. She clapped her hands together into a clasp of eagerness and her green eyes glowed as she took in the photo on the screen. It was the cowboy, all cleaned up in a suit, looking handsome, those blue eyes piercing even in the photo. And down below, farther in the story, was a photo of the cowboy with his family—a wife ready to pop and two cute little girls. The reporter was even kind enough to name everyone in the photo, the ranch (the Bar W) and the highway it was located off of.
Susan felt a burning joy at this discovery. The cowboy had at least three people that he cared about in this world. Four if the baby had been born. Four ways to completely rip his heart out and torture him—before she actually killed him.
An idea was forming so quickly in her brain that she tried not to listen to it. It was rash and coming too quickly. She tried to slow down, but she already loved the idea and it flooded in. It was so bold and unthinkable that it might work. Susan let it come into her mind, forgetting her last meeting with Uncle. She was on her feet now, pacing back and forth before her large picture window that looked out on the golf course. She stopped and stared out on the green expanse and the players that were just arriving with the twilight. But she did not see them. She was deep in her mind, playing out how she would hurt the cowboy and his family, torturing and then killing each one before his eyes. Her only dilemma was which to kill last in front of him, his baby or his wife. A little voice deep in the back of her mind called for reason, patience and mindfulness of what her uncle had told her, but she was done with it. She knew Uncle would never trust her with anything of importance now. She would be lucky if he didn’t demote her from vice president of security and gaming to parking cars. If she went ahead with this plan, even if it worked flawlessly, he would probably wash his hands of her.
She didn’t care. She wanted the cowboy—aka Tom White—dead. Because of him, Ash was dead; because of him she had lost her chance at leading the group and impressing the group and her uncle. Logic had been gradually slipping away from her and madness had started seeping into her mind. She had returned to her chair in front of the computer and went into a sort of trance; she boiled in her hatred for awhile—hating the cowboy, Uncle, the group, Steve and Weasel, fate, her bad luck, and even cold, dead Ash at one point. At last she came back to herself and wondered why she was sitting in the dark, her computer screen and the light from the golf course her only illumination. Looking at her computer, she noticed that an hour had passed. She stood, stretched and turned on the overhead light.
She was going to need to make herself a double espresso if she was going to stay up most of the night learning everything she could about Tom White and Sweetwater, Nevada. This time she would be running the whole operation and there wouldn’t be any screwups.
Chapter 28
Tom drove around the perimeter of the ranch checking fences. He had some old, fat, lazy cows that thought the alfalfa on the ranch side of the fence tasted a whole lot better than the grass on the government side. These old bitches just seemed to know where the fence was weakest and would push until they broke it. Then they would walk out into the tall, green alfalfa, clear up to their fat bellies, and gorge on the rich feed. And if Tom didn’t catch
them soon enough, they would bloat. Then he would have to get the backhoe and plant a cow tree. One dead cow was expensive enough, but at this time of year, she would usually have a calf at her side. These loafer cows would hang out in groups waiting for a renegade to break the fence and lead the way in. He might find two or three of these rotten mothers teaching their babies all of their bad tricks.
His dad had been worn out by the ranch and he had not put money into fixing fences, but Tom and Cami tried to replace a few miles of fence a year and had nearly replaced all of the worst spots. Tom’s dad had a small plane, and he used it to look for strays. Sometimes Tom thought his dad didn’t fix the fences so he could have another excuse to go out and fly. He had taught Tom to fly, and when he was eighteen and about to apply for his pilot’s license, his father and his little red plane went down in a random dust storm. Tom pushed the back of his hand against his eyes. Focus.
Sure enough, over on the east side, a fat red Hereford with one horn raised her head to look at him. She chomped on the alfalfa like spaghetti and tossed her head at the sight of him and Farley in the truck. Farley leaned his head out of the truck window and gave her his unshakable Border Collie stare. “You bitch,” Tom said. Farley whined at his tone, ready for a word from Tom that he might go and chase her.
Tom remembered this cow; she always had an attitude, and last year she had charged and struck his horse. He had wanted to get rid of her last year, but she always had such nice calves. And she had another one this year—a cute little guy with a dark brown patch over one eye like a pirate. He was more interested in the sweet feed and stuck his head down again to munch, letting Mom worry about the dog and the cowboy.
Tom looked up to the canyon where this pair should be. He could see a pair of black Angus cattle making their way towards the break in the fence. He could round up these pairs and drive them back up the canyon where they belonged, or he could put them in a pen at the ranch and haul them to the sale next week. That second idea sounded most appealing. The cow market was up and he was sick of fighting with spoiled cows; he was at the C.O.D. point in his life with cattle—cull on disposition. Besides, if he drove them back up into the canyon, he would see them back in the field in a week.
He turned the truck around and headed for home. He and the girls could saddle up and have these cows in the pen before the hottest part of the day. Tom felt better and realized he hadn’t thought about murders or devil worshippers since he had started the truck.
He pulled up in front of the house. He could hear the kids playing in the backyard; he walked around the corner so fast that he startled Cami, who nearly dropped her tall glass of iced tea. She was sitting back on a lounge chair on the covered deck.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Tom said. He watched her brush the spilled tea off her bare legs.
She smiled. “Yeah, right. You would have loved it if I spilled the whole thing on my crotch.” She stood and brushed more tea off her lean tan thighs. Tom watched approvingly. She had a great figure; it defied the fact that she had three babies.
“Why don’t you change that tank top and shorts for your bikini and lay out here and sunbathe?” Tom’s eyes had that seductive glint in them.
“Maybe I will,” she teased, “after you leave.”
He caught her wrist and pulled her to him, crushing her against him, and began to kiss the back of her neck. “Tom!” She giggled and tried to move away. “Tom, you know that tickles.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” he lied, intensifying his kissing and breathing his hot breath down her spine. She squealed and the kids finally noticed him and ran over to them. Tom stopped and whispered in Cami’s ear, “I think I’m going to have to examine you later for other ticklish areas.” Cami smiled at him.
“Dad, can we go now?” Amanda was ready to ride.
“Yes, you girls go get your riding clothes on while I visit with your mom.”
“Kay Dad!” They were already going through the screen door into the house.
Landon stood looking up at his dad, his little pudgy arm wrapped around Cami’s knee. He was so sweet and cute; Tom would never have believed a little kid could melt his heart so easily. “What’s up, partner?”
Landon stretched his hands up to Tom. “Up Da!”
Tom obliged and put Landon above his head where he could almost touch the top of the porch then dropped him quickly to his chest. Landon laughed and Tom rubbed his stubbly face against the baby silk cheek; Landon didn’t like this and shouted half in amusement and half in annoyance. Tom set him down and put his cowboy hat on his head. “Uh oh, where did Landon go?” Landon tipped the hat back and peeked up at Tom. They both laughed; it was a game they often played and one of Landon’s favorites. Landon played for a few minutes, and then saw the cat sneaking across the yard. He pushed Tom’s hat off his head and onto the ground and took off after the cat.
“Look at that, no respect for a man’s hat.” Tom said it with disgust, but smiled after Landon and then bent over and put the hat back on. He pulled Cami back into his arms and was just starting to kiss her when the girls came out of the house.
“Geez Dad,” said Amanda, “we’ve got work to do. You can’t stay here all day kissing Mom!”
“Yeah!” Kylee said.
“All right, all right you slave drivers,” said Tom. He gave Cami a little hug. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Okay, have fun—be careful,” Cami called after them. She turned back and saw that Landon had managed to chase the cat over the fence and was now reaching his short arms through the chain link trying to reach it. He was starting to get frustrated and was making discontented little shrieks. Naptime. Cami’s favorite time of day. Maybe with the girls gone and Landon down for a nap she could get some work done. Or maybe she would actually sunbathe and relax—something she rarely did anymore.
Chapter 29
Weasel came to. This time it took him long minutes to put everything together. Finally, he remembered the last thing he had seen before he passed out. It was so dark in this shaft, but he guessed it was still daytime, because it was so hot and he could see a little bit. Mercifully, his hand was still behind his back reaching for his gun. Perhaps if he took this in baby steps, instead of trying to make it one movement, he would have some success. He grabbed hold of the butt of the gun with his thumb and forefinger. His vision turned red and faded a moment with the pain. He paused and waited for his senses to stabilize. Lifting the weight of the gun out of the back of his pants and hoisting it over his hip were going to be the most difficult exercises. He had never known such pain, and he was not a stranger to pain. The closest he could compare it to was having your finger smashed in a car door, only this pain didn’t stop or ebb. It was constant, fresh and new, and it radiated from most of his left side. He held his breath and made a mighty effort and pulled. He told his brain to pass out if it wanted, but to hold on to the gun no matter what. He screamed at a new and deeper wave of pain that pulled him down. He felt the whole mine shaft waver, but the gun was free and its weight dragged down hard on his hand, wracking his shoulder joint. Pushing himself back and concentrating, he summoned his strength and hoisted his gun and arm to the top of his side and rested it on his hip. His breathing was labored like he had just run some marathon, and he let himself rest, a smile across his face. Finally, he had control over one miserable part of his whole fucking sad situation. When he was ready, he could eat a bullet. He didn’t think it would be long now. Seeing that giant cartoon rat had scared him. It was worse than seeing a rattler or black scorpion coming across the floor for him, because those things were based in reality. Seeing a giant cartoon rat, a scary rat, that meant madness, and a mad man might do anything. He didn’t want to go Donner party and decide that old Steve didn’t look or smell too bad and that, in fact, he was a lot like Thanksgiving dinner with extra cranberry sauce.
Weasel gagged at that thought and beads of sweat broke out across his body. He was afraid his descent into
madness was well underway, but what was that saying? “Only crazy people think they are not crazy.” So did it follow that only sane people questioned their sanity? He didn’t know. But at least he had the gun, loaded and ready. He at least had that shred of control. He remembered a story about a man trapped in the wilderness, who had to cut off his own arm with a pocketknife to escape and get back to civilization. Well there is no escape for me, he thought, but if that guy could cut off his own arm with a pocketknife and live, then surely he could eat a bullet and die. It had been a topic of conversation at the bar on occasion with Steve or one of the heavies from work. They knew the best way and position to ensure quick success if it ever came down to taking yourself out.
He remembered Steve once saying, “If I screwed up, man, and I knew they were coming for me,” he paused and shook his big, fat head for emphasis, “I would eat that gun.” He made a gun with his fat fingers and demonstrated. “No way I’m going to be taken. I’ve seen them breaking knees and parts with hammers and baseball bats. No way am I going for that shit.”
What he really should have said was that he had broken knees and parts. But that was Steve, playing the machismo when it suited his purposes and avoiding blame or fault in the next sentence. As it was, Steve had gotten his—he deserved much worse—but he had gotten his, hadn’t he? During these thoughts of living and dying, survival and death, Weasel had been resting, his eyes closed. Now he felt a small tug that moved his whole body. He opened his eyes; the shaft seemed slightly darker, but he could still see his reflection in the huge red eyes of the rat at his feet. Its yellow teeth were streaked with blood and its muzzle was full of gore. It chewed busily like a normal rodent might eat a peanut, feeding Weasel’s numb and paralyzed left leg into its mouth with a jerk now and then.
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