The Sacrifice

by Sandy J Hartwick

  She knew Uncle was watching her; she had seen his troll outside of her condo. She wondered if he had bugged her phone or computer, but she wasn’t worried about that, because none of it played into her plan. Let him watch—there would be nothing to see for a while. She smirked; let them believe she was sulking or pouting or afraid. Maybe her uncle would believe she had gone home like a dog with its tail between its legs to lick her wounds. With Ash’s memorial coming up, maybe Uncle would believe she was occupied with that and think she was pouting and trying to figure a way into his favor.

  Frankly, she didn’t give a fuck what he thought as long as he and his troll left her alone. By Friday, Uncle would need his troll back for security and duty at Ash’s memorial anyway and she wouldn’t have to worry about him. Not that she was worried—she could take him out if she wanted to. Uncle had lavished money on their educations, pushing them into classes and skills that he wished he had himself. All those classes Uncle had made them take—karate, defensive driving, shooting. They even had pilot’s licenses: Ash had earned his fixed wing and she had a helicopter license. She had enjoyed these teachings for the most part. Her instructors had stressed that the techniques they taught her were for self-defense, and she had smiled and agreed, but inwardly looked forward to the day when she might use them to hurt someone.

  She got up from the bed and began to pack her bag for Friday. She packed rope, duct tape, two sets of handcuffs, her knife and her leg strap for it, her 9mm and ammo, the folder with all of its info on the cowboy and maps of where he lived, plus a flight map of the area. On top of this she put a change of clothing, jeans and a tank top and tennis shoes. She packed the clingy black dress she had chosen for the memorial and all the accessories, from her stilettos to the big hat and a pair of sunglasses, so she could change as quickly as possible. She loved organization and her brain clicked with this activity. Putting things in order and aright made her happy. The last two days had been off track—lunatic almost—compared to how she usually behaved. A man, a plan, panama, it was one of her favorite sayings and her favorite palindrome. This was how she liked it … planned, organized and thought out. But somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice shouted a warning. Susan was doing what she wanted; pretending it was well planned and brilliant pushed her excitement and her ego, which only buried the little voice deeper in her tangled brain.

  When she was ready, she got into bed and slept again. She felt like she would need her rest for her mission on Friday.

  About halfway to Vegas and just before he drove through Goldfield, Father Bob saw flashing lights approaching him fast. He pulled to the side of the road and watched a highway patrolman zoom past him then slam on his brakes and turn onto a little dirt side road heading west. Father Bob wondered at this. Then as he was about to pull back onto the road he saw another set of flashing lights coming—this time an ambulance. It was going at a good clip, but it braked sensibly and made the same turn. He watched the vehicles kick up dust as they went westward. Must be a motorcycle wreck or something? He could not imagine the highway patrol going off road, but maybe out here in the boonies, whichever authority was closest responded to emergencies.

  He pulled back on the road. He had been driving for four hours, stopping only for fuel in Tonopah. The barren landscape dotted only with Joshua trees (weird Dr. Seuss-like plants that he didn’t consider trees), low creosote bushes and endless rock mountains marked his drive. He found himself in highway hypnosis for much of the trip, his mind wandering over what he should do and how he should do it. He wavered between being excited and sure that he would get something on the Taylor family to wondering if his brain was addled. How did he think he could sneak into the casino’s corporate area and snoop around? Well, he would need to lose the priest collar for sure. But maybe with this memorial he could learn enough about Ash and his family to finagle a way into corporate with his priest’s collar? He could lie (with his fingers crossed) that he knew Ash and his good works and insist on giving his sympathies directly to Ash’s uncle himself. If he could get into their lair, he might be able to overhear or see something of value.

  Another part of him wondered what the hell he was thinking. This was for the FBI, but then he remembered the many cops on the take in New York, even on the highest levels. No, he wanted something solid, some clue that linked the Taylor family to the baby murder in Sweetwater. An undeniable piece of evidence that he could forward to news sources, the FBI, local law enforcement—get onto the net and then out to the world. Once he had evidence and had broadcasted it to all, he would tell the FBI everything and step out of the way.

  It excited him to think that he might help bring down a large segment of the devil worshippers in the West. It was one thing to remove demons and spirits from houses and people, but another to take out those who served and recruited for the Devil. If what he believed was true, bringing them down might be the most important thing he had done during his thirty-six years in the priesthood or even his life. The more he thought about it, the more he believed he could use his identity as a priest to get in to see Mr. Taylor. He could use his passion and anger against these people and get access. As the idea gelled in his mind, his speedometer raised and getting to Vegas quicker was important. He had a lot to do before tomorrow.

  Another set of flashing lights passed, so quickly that Father Bob didn’t even have time to pull off the road. Another highway patrol. Father Bob shook his head wonderingly. It must be one heck of a motorcycle wreck.

  Chapter 35

  “Hey! Hello down there! Hello?”

  Weasel thought he could hear someone calling him, but he didn’t want to be bothered. He was walking barefoot, on fresh-cut grass beneath the willow trees in his grandma’s yard in southwestern Missouri. He was so hot and thirsty—it seemed like years since he had a cool drink of water. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry that he had no spit.

  At last he saw his grandma in the backyard by the spring box. She smiled at him and said, “Hi, sweetheart. Let me get you a nice cool glass of spring water.”

  He felt so much joy, because Grandma Jane loved him so much, so completely, unconditionally, and she was going to get him some cool Missouri spring water.

  Magically, a clear sparkling glass appeared in her hand and an old-fashioned gourd dipper in her other hand. Weasel recognized the old dipper instantly. He must have used it a thousand times back when he spent his summer vacation with Grandma. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound, the beautiful sound of Grandma pouring the water from the gourd into the glass. The water from the spring box was the best he had ever had—cold, sweet and delicious. Grandma kept a bottle of it icy cold in her fridge and it was good too, but straight from the spring box was best. Grandma smiled at him, her eyes full of love, although he thought he saw some odd pause or flicker in them—never mind that. She handed him the water, clear, dazzling and cold, and he wanted to drink it worse than anything, but something in his brain made him look back at Grandma.

  Oh yes, he was still in Grandma’s yard in southwestern Missouri, but it wasn’t Grandma anymore. It was the giant cartoon rat, doing a big bad wolf routine, wearing Grandma’s housedress and apron. Its giant yellow teeth smiling its eternal rat-toothed smile. Horror and terrible disappointment filled him, because he knew without looking that his beautiful, sparkling glass of water was something less than wholesome now. He could tell it had changed. The glass was no longer cool in his hand—it felt lukewarm. He did not want to look, but had to. It looked like a glass of Steve, perhaps run through a blender to the texture of chunky salsa. Some liquid, but mostly chunks. Some liquid. God, he was so thirsty. He looked back at the rat and it slowly nodded its big head. Bits of skin and other nasty things floating on the top of the liquid. Liquid. So thirsty. Maybe just a tiny sip. A drop or two to cut the pile of sand that was his mouth.

  Again, far away, faintly and above him, Weasel heard someone calling, “Hello! Can you hear me?” This time he gladly pulled away from the b
eloved yard in Missouri—it had turned to a horror. He tried to focus his eyes and look up. There, far above him, he thought he could see someone. But, he didn’t know, as he was on the edge now and all of his systems were running down. He was past the point of caring, passing even the animal mode of primitive survival; he was like an old dog wandering off to die. Weasel was done.

  The geologist stood as close to the cave-in as he dared. One man was still alive and had landed on the other half of the guy in the trunk.

  If the man was alive, he was barely alive. The geologist ran back down the hill, unmindful of the blazing desert sun, and zagged around the Crown Victoria, very mindful of the stench and dreadfulness of its trunk, and threw open the door to his jeep and got on the CB. He had seen a search and rescue team training just a few hours ago only a mountain range over. Maybe they were still around.

  He called mayday and got several call backs. One from a local in town that would call for help and one from one of the mining company secretaries who said she had seen the search and rescue group getting packed up to leave about half an hour ago, but she would send someone out to try and catch them and send them over.

  That done, he stood beside his jeep wondering what else he could do. The guy had to have been down in that shaft a couple of days, judging from the unspeakable thing that buzzed with flies in the back of his car. He had to be thirsty. He must also be a murderer. How else could he have a decomposing half body in his trunk? At last he gave up on the moral dilemma, grabbed his canteen and a long tow cable and began to run back up the hill to the mine shaft.

  Chapter 36

  Tom and the girls followed at an easy canter after the cows. He had to keep reminding Farley to stay with them, because the dog’s intent was all about “getting the cows.” Even Cheyenne stayed at a canter without Kylee having to encourage her with her heels. Tom didn’t usually allow them to run towards home, so that the horses wouldn’t become barn sour, but today it was so hot and he felt like having a little fun with the girls. They both were grinning like Cheshire cats, their long blonde hair streaming back behind them. Soon they were at the corrals. Tom had opened all the gates so the cows were already down the alleyway to the corral with the loading chute.

  “Want me to lock them in, Daddy?” Amanda asked.

  “No. I don’t want you or your sister near this pen. That red cow is mean and she’ll run you down if she gets the chance.” Tom made sure both girls understood him.

  “Yes, Daddy,” they said together.

  As if to prove him right, the old bitch raised and lowered her head several times and switched her tail. A long streamer of snot trailed from one of her nostrils, and the sun glinted on her crazy crooked horn. Farley growled at her.

  “You girls go close the other gates and I’ll close this one.” He dismounted, because this gate was one of the last old, heavy ones he had on the ranch. It required some muscle to move it and it was impossible to close on horseback. He had the gate half closed when the old bitch decided to charge him. Farley growled and Tom told him to heel. He yanked harder on the gate and really got it to move. The gate was closed and braced by the gate post when the cow hit it. She slammed into the boards across from him, and they cracked but held. She hit so hard that she shook her bony head and staggered for a second.

  “Yuck!” Tom shook the snot she had flung on him off his arm and pulled the chain around the gate and latched it. The girls giggled and went to close the other gates. Tom was glad the old bitch had charged him, because they had seen her in action and would stay away from the corral. He watched the girls closing the gates and working together. This was the kind of life they wanted for their family—working together out in the fresh air as a team—learning, helping and growing together. All he had left out was peace and harmony, and it did sound corny, but his life had been calm until just a few days ago.

  He needed to do something, whether the law was involved or not. Just sitting here like a chicken waiting for the axe to fall was a victim’s stance. He could not see himself going to Vegas with Father Bob to take on this family of casino Satanists. First, he had no idea of where to begin, and second, it was crazy. This was real life, not some made-for-TV movie. There were people trained to deal with this kind of thing and he wasn’t one of them. But what if he had to give up this life? What if he and his family had to disappear into some new secret existence and depend on the government to keep them safe? Tom didn’t like that idea much. He had seen the government in action, and if he couldn’t trust it with his tax dollars, then he couldn’t put the lives of those he cherished in the government’s hands.

  So, he was back to square one, stuck in indecision and not sure where to go next. Well, the first thing he could do would be to try to make the ranch and his family as secure as possible. This one seemed so obvious that he felt like kicking his own ass. He could at least lock all the gates coming into the ranch so he could slow any intruders down.

  He could set Cami and the kids up in the camp trailer in the canyon above the ranch. No one would need to know they were up there and it would be fun for the kids; they were always begging to go camping. Cami would not be thrilled, as camping meant work and more work for her, but she would be glad to go when Tom told her Father Bob’s theory about the Jameses. It wasn’t much of a plan, but Tom felt better taking action, instead of waiting.

  “Let’s put the horses away and go get some lunch,” Tom said to the girls, as he led Chance out the side gate; they all headed to the house.

  The old red cow watched them go and shook her head and switched her tail. She hated horses and people, but she especially hated dogs.

  Chapter 37

  Father Bob pulled into the Azteca’s valet parking/registration area a little before five p.m. Its giant Aztec pyramid shape seemed dark and looming now, not like his last trip here when it had seemed so appealing. He handed his keys to one of the kids parking cars in exchange for a ticket and grabbed his two pieces of luggage. He was wearing plain clothes, saving his priest’s collar for now. He didn’t want to draw any notice to himself; he had to see how much he could observe as an ordinary person before he donned his priest collar, which would draw attention in a casino.

  Fortunately, the reservation desk was close to valet and on the edge of the casino’s crushing aura. It was not as smoky as he remembered—maybe they had changed their ventilation system?—but it still felt claustrophobic. There was a short line for check-in and Father Bob stood in it, subtly studying the desk clerks. When his turn arrived, an older, attractive lady with “Stella” and “New York City” on her name tag called, “May I help you?”

  Father Bob smiled a genuine smile of gratitude, because this was the clerk he had been hoping for, and that she was from New York City was just an incredible bonus. He turned up the charm and flirted with her and discovered that she was single, her last name was Johnson and she had worked at the Azteca for eleven years. He also found out that she lived on the outskirts of Vegas in Henderson.

  “Well, Stella dear, it’s been a pleasure.” He gave her a wink. This little interaction might not be important, but she would remember him in a positive way if he needed a favor.

  “Likewise, Mr. Mitchell”—Stella smiled, looking flushed—“enjoy your stay.”

  He smiled back at her and made his way to the gift store, bought the local paper and then took the elevator to his room. The elevators and the hallways still had that tomblike feeling, but when he opened the door to his room, he felt slightly better. The room was decorated in a Spanish style with colors of clean white and grass green with gold and wooden accents. There was a long window with a good view of the strip below. The air felt fresher in here too.

  He closed the door, set his bags on the extra queen bed and opened the paper to the help wanted section. As he had guessed, there was an ad for the Azteca, advertising various positions, and it said to apply in person at the lower-level personnel offices located in the casino between nine and five thirty weekdays. It was jus
t a bit after five; he still had time. He found the hotel binder that listed services, room service and the hotel floor plan. The plan showed the upper three floors of the casino as executive offices. What they were calling lower level showed shops and casino administration and personnel. First floor was the casino and second and third floors were convention centers and conference rooms.

  He made sure he had his room key card, put the paper under his arm and headed out. This time when he got into the elevator he studied the buttons more carefully. He punched the main level button and noticed there were no buttons for floors four, five or six. There was a second elevator system, as he had suspected.

  He found the personnel office in a corner of the lower level. The people in the office had the old “Can’t wait for quitting time!” expressions on their faces, and he could tell they were not excited to see another applicant this late in the day. A heavyset black lady hardly looked up as he approached her window. “Please fill out the application completely, including daytime phone and address. I will need to make a copy of your driver’s license.” She said all of this with the charm of an irritated robot, as she slid a clipboard with the application towards him.