Devil Creek

by Stephen Mertz

  Kelly shook her head slightly, no. "You're very kind, and you're a good person, Robin. Mike's a lucky man to have met you and won your heart. But me moving into your home? That wouldn't be good for Mike."

  Robin said, "You do know by now that he didn't kill your sister, right?"

  "I had to know it in my heart," said Kelly, "beyond what people were telling me, and I couldn't know that unless I came to Devil Creek and saw for myself."

  "So that's why you've been watching Mike, and talking to Paul?"

  "I was saving you for last because I was doing this for you, too."

  "You said that before. I don't understand."

  "Robin, I've spent my whole life taking, not giving. Taking. It started for some reason near the beginning of my life, taking Barbie dolls and boyfriends from Carol, and as I grew up, taking for granted the love of people who cared for me enough to give. I took drugs, I took gifts, I took love, and I never gave anything back because I thought I was protecting . . . what? I was a fool. I had nothing of substance in my life to protect. I had nothing because I never cherished and kept the things that were given to me that had true value. So now that I've come near the end of my life, I'm going to turn it around. I've got to give something valuable, and that something was to determine if you and Paul were in danger: if your heart had made you trust a murderer, the way my sister may have. If I saw evil in Mike, I would know because I am such an outsider. Then, I would warn you. I had to know in my heart. I had to know the truth for the both of us. I hope you see that."

  "I think I'm beginning to. Well, Kelly? What is your verdict?"

  "The same as yours. I didn't just talk to Paul and spy on your husband. Oh no, I've been quite the busy little bee about town. I just 'happened' to meet Mrs. Merrill to get her impression since she works for Mike, and I asked other people—casually, they thought—about the town newspaper and its editor. But it was Paul, mostly."

  Robin leaned forward with interest. "What did Paul say to convince you?"

  "I could tell how well-adjusted he was," said Kelly, "from how he spoke about his life here, that such an evil could never be harbored under your roof. We're easier to fool as we get older and smarter. It's hard to fool a sharp kid Paul's age. The questions I had about Carol's death have been answered in my heart. The police got the right man in Albuquerque."

  Robin said, "There's a place within Mike where the pain of losing your sister never goes away."

  Kelly nodded. "I know the feeling. Do you want to hear something funny? I'm actually glad that I'm not leaving anyone behind to feel that way for me."

  "I'll feel that way for you, Kelly. I've never met anyone like you and I like you a lot."

  Kelly's sigh conveyed an infinite sadness. "I thought I could come into your town, into your life, and do what I did . . . and not cause one hell of a mess. I'm sorry."

  "The thing is," said Robin, "I understand why you did what you did, thanks to this conversation. And the truth will keep Mike straight, knowing who you are. He's man enough not to be tortured by the physical similarity between you and Carol, once he understands. Mike's been though a lot in his life. He's a dynamic, good guy who meets life on its own terms."

  "That's almost exactly what Carol said about him in her card, that he was a hard person not to like."

  "Or love." Robin smiled. "And I'd say you fit into that category yourself. I believe that things happen to us for a reason, sometimes good, sometimes bad. Seeing Mike drunk and passed out, that was really bad. But it led to a talk we needed to have, and that's a good thing. And what brought you here, your quest for the truth, true to the person you've become, I admire that very much."

  Kelly made a wry face. Up close, it was more apparent that the lines around her eyes were creased deeper than they should have been at her age, and there was a pallor to her skin that makeup could not wholly conceal, as it did at a distance.

  She said, "I just wish it hadn't taken getting cancer to bring about the change."

  Robin asked, "What are we going to do now?"

  "I was on my way out of town when you, uh, caught up with me. I'm really glad you did. I can leave Devil Creek now with a clear conscience, and knowing what I came to find out. But if you'll give Mike my best wishes and my deepest apologies, I think I'll be on my way."

  Kelly got to her feet.

  Robin rose with her. "But where will you go?"

  "I'm not sure. Down the highway somewhere. I've spent my life as a traveling woman. That's one part of me I don't think I want to change. The cancer will slow me down to a stop soon enough."

  "What about alternative treatments? There's holistic health, and—"

  "Whatever I need," Kelly interrupted gently, "I need to travel my road and find it alone. That's the way I am, and that's the way it is."

  They walked to where the Altima was parked.

  With the sun having set, the air temperature should have been cool. But the smoke seemed to retain the heat of the day. The black thunderheads had closed in overhead, smothering the twilight of dusk. The air was warm and gritty. The sky to the west pulsated with an angry orange-red glow. There was a supernatural aura to the world.

  When they reached the car, they shared a natural, prolonged embrace.

  Robin said, "I wish you would stay in Devil Creek for at least a few days, so you could meet Mike."

  Kelly said, "Maybe I'll get down the road and think about it and turn around and come back. But for now . . . no, I think I've done enough here. Goodbye, Robin."

  "Goodbye, Kelly. I hope to see you again."

  Their embrace ended.

  Kelly avoided further eye contact with Robin. She abruptly got into the Altima and drove off without a backward glance.

  Robin watched the taillights that glowed like embers through the curtain of smoke before winking out. She stood there, alone in the parking lot of the Express Stop.

  A white van with Forest Service markings drew up to one of the gas pumps, disgorging a group of in-shape young men and women who loitered about restlessly while the driver fueled the van. Their yellow hardhats identified them as one of the "hotshot" firefighter crews coming in from around the state and neighboring states. Firefighting gear was stowed atop the van.

  She walked slowly to her Subaru. An aching loneliness depressed her. Kelly Shaw was the loneliest person she had ever known, and that sense of loneliness lingered within Robin from their encounter. Robin needed to be with her family right now more than anything in the world.

  There was still the matter of Jeff, but the threat of her creep of an ex-husband no longer seemed so intimidating, now that Kelly had put everything in perspective. Jeff's presence in Devil Creek was a major pain, not only his proximity to Paul but also this talk of "suspicious circumstances" surrounding the death of the previous project manager at Sunrise Ridge. But that problem would be easier to deal with now that everything was back on track with Mike and Paul.

  She tried reaching Mike on her cell phone, and was disappointed but not surprised when she got his voice mail. She said, "It's me. I love you," and disconnected.

  She tried calling Paul. Again, voice mail. She said, "Paul I'm on my way home," and that's what she proceeded to do.

  The drive home took longer than usual since traffic crept along because of the haze that hugged the ground like fog, combining with the dusk to make buildings alongside the road into vague silhouettes. Headlights pierced the half-light like ghostly fingers. She passed neon lights that glowed like fireflies in bottles draped with gauze.

  The smoke started to thin somewhat by the time she reached the gravel county road that led home, and she felt a reassuring comfort of the spirit when she turned into their driveway. The Subaru's headlights swept across the face of the house and the front yard.

  The comfort of familiarity died when she saw someone sitting in the front yard, near the ash tree.

  She frowned. Mike's Jeep was nowhere in sight. She hadn't expected him to be home.

  The figure sat
cross-legged upon the ground, facing the direction of the fire, where the low, black cloud ceiling shimmered with garish red pulsation.

  She stepped on the brake, halting the Subaru so that the figure was framed in the headlights, but the smoke seemed to become denser at that moment, like black smoke mystically absorbing the headlight beams, not allowing them to penetrate.

  She turned off the ignition switch, but left the headlights on. She stepped from the car.

  A muted, strangely cadenced murmuring emanated from the figure.

  She took a step in that direction, then another. The family pistol was in the house—unless Mike had for some reason stopped by and taken it with him—but she had the weird sensation of not being intimidated by the murmuring sounds. It was chanting: somehow, not threatening. Familiar.

  She recognized the voice.

  The thick black smoke concealing the person's features cleared as if blown away by invisible bellows.

  "Paul!"

  Seen in the headlight beams from the Subaru, there could be no mistaking her husky, sandy-haired fourteen-year-old son. His eyes remained closed as he chanted, with his arms, like his serious, set face, lifted skyward. His lips barely moved. The chanting was guttural, rhythmic, authoritative, determined.

  It was not her son's voice.

  "Paul . . . honey, what's wrong?"

  The eyes opened.

  They were not Paul's eyes, but glowing orbs of an inner fire that burned, and the voice—guttural, brute, like the chanting—was one she had never heard before.

  "I am not your son. I am Gray Wolf."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The fire raged.

  Blazing. Devouring. Advancing.

  The steepness of the slope increased. The fire gained momentum across the rugged terrain. The firestorm created winds that swept the conflagration downslope, funneled through the canyon by its towering walls made rosy by incredible heat. Sixteen-foot flames leapt from the lofty tops of mixed conifer and aspen to the lower pinion and juniper, an inferno consuming everything in its path: living and dead vegetation, chaparral and trees weakened after the drought, unable to fend off insect attacks, "beetle kill," providing combustible fuel.

  The fire raged, consuming five hundred acres per hour, traveling at eight miles per hour.

  Advancing on Sunrise Ridge.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Mike regained consciousness, he was smiling.

  He'd been dreaming about the time, about a year ago, when he and Robin had rented a rowboat for a day to themselves out by the lake. Paul had a day planned with his friends, and so it had been just the two of them.

  There were kids and some adults laughing and splashing over by the sandy beach beyond the rental boat dock, but Robin had packed a basket lunch, so they rowed to a spot a half-mile upshore, and they had a world to themselves: a world of soft sunshine filtered through the cottonwoods' branches and leaves, the scent of damp earth where the water lapped against the shore, and the lazy buzzing of cicada and the bird songs.

  They had their picnic at the edge of the lake, and then rowed further along, where they stretched out side by side in each other's arms. They had made physical love, but the love they were making between them at that moment was so sweet, with the boat rocking with the gentle swells from an afternoon breeze upon the lake, that Mike had wished the moment would never end. . . .

  The smile evaporated as his senses returned one by one. First his memory returned, as did the pain like an ice pick to the brain.

  The gentle back and forth sensation was not that of a rowboat on a sunny, lazy afternoon on the lake with Robin in his arms. It was the back-and-forth motion of a vehicle traveling at a considerable rate of speed. He heard the engine and the sound of tires crunching along a gravel road.

  His wrists were bound behind his back with what felt like electrical tape. His face was pressed against the cold metal of a floor.

  Some part of his consciousness resisted opening his eyes. He didn't want the dream to end. So perfect, so lovely.

  He forced his eyes open, which caused throbbing pain to erupt at his temples. He was in the back of a van. It was night. His ankles were not bound, which would make him easier to transport if he was awake or semi-conscious. With every second, his awareness of pain grew until it seemed to engulf his entire being, though it was really centered in only one place.

  His head felt ready to explode, like an over-inflated basketball. That side of his face was swollen. The skin was broken and raw where it scraped against the floor of the van.

  Blurred memory came of stepping into the cabin, seeing Del Muskie's body like a clump of bloody rags, and then being clubbed twice from behind; trying to force himself up off the floor and taking a swift kick to that side of the head for the trouble. With that image, his pain expanded to the back of his throbbing head and traveled south along his spine to torture his every nerve ending with red-hot agony.

  He tried to get a better view of the van's interior, half expecting to see Del Muskie's pathetic copse riding along beside him. He was alone in the rear of the van. He became aware of voices conversing with each other.

  A man was saying, "You sure have been acting funny, Domino, ever since . . . well, I don't know, ever since we drove up to do the number on Muskie."

  Mike thought, so much for "suspicious circumstances." What he'd heard amounted to a stone cold confession. Jeff and whoever he was speaking to—Domino?—had murdered Muskie.

  What did they have planned for Mike? Where were they taking him? Even in the hazy condition that his brain was in at this moment, one thing did register with stark clarity. They seemed unaware that he was regaining consciousness, and/or they didn't care. But Lovechio would not be speaking so openly about having killed a man if they intended to let Mike survive. . . .

  Jeff Lovechio's voice was recognizable, yet sounded different than when Mike and Ben had gone to see him at the construction site about the death of Joe Olson earlier that day. Then, Lovechio had been smug with a sneering self-confidence. Now, there was the tremble of uncertainty, perhaps fear.

  Mike lay with his head toward the front of the van. He twisted his neck around for a look up front. He saw the backs of twin bucket seats, the greenish light from the dashboard and, beyond the windshield, trees being illuminated by the van's headlights. And an eerie reddish-gold glow filtered through from the darkness outside, dancing faintly through the van.

  He thought, The fire. We're driving toward the fire. The fire's burning through the canyon, moving toward the Sunrise Ridge resort site. Jeff is the project manager at the site. They're hauling me up to the resort. They're driving toward the fire. What the hell?

  Lovechio cleared his throat and said to the man named Domino, "So you don't feel like talking, eh? Hell, that's okay. I understand. Back in the day when I was making my bones with the Family, I offed me a few guys. Sure did. That was a long time ago, but I remember that it can take something out of a guy."

  Again, a protracted silence from the driver instead of a response.

  Mike's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness inside the van. It was a rear-door van, not a model with a sliding door on the side, which was good.

  An objective part of him noted with approval that, rather than surrendering to despair or panic, this ordinary guy—nothing but a small-town newspaperman—was summoning the wherewithal to isolate escape options and being strategizing. The past gave gifts as well as ghosts. The lessons taught long ago to this covert ops combatant were alive and well after all these years, buried deep in their own niche within his memory, and he was drawing on those ingrained principles now.

  Escape. Adapt. Improvise. ESCAPE!

  The rear doors had standard inside latches. If he could maneuver a kick at those door handles just right. . . . But even though Lovechio and Domino did not seem to care if he was conscious or unconscious, they would certainly be aware enough to hear him kick at the door, and if the first kick didn't get it—

  Lo
vechio cleared his throat again. "Domino, I'd better remind you that you're the hired help here, pal. Much as I respect your abilities. Maybe you ought to let me drive us the rest of the way. This is my deal after all, and—"

  "Silence."

  The voice emanating from behind the steering wheel—Mike still could not see the speaker—had a bass-heavy echo, like a half-human entity from horror movie: a threatening, primal growl.

  Lovechio said, "Hey, wait a minute, that's no way to talk to me. Goddamn it, I'm the boss here, remember." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as the man named Domino.

  Mike used his boots heels to gain traction and, as quietly as possible, shifted his position there in the darkness, hoping his subtle movements would go unnoticed since the pair in the bucket seats seemed so involved with their own business. He managed to scrunch himself sideways upon the floor at an angle directly behind and below the passenger's side, with his shoulders scrunched up against the side of the van, his knees drawn up to his chest.

  He could hardly make out form of the driver, much less any of his features. The man wore black, including black gloves.

  Domino intoned, in that eerie, distorted bass voice, "The prophecy is fulfilled. Judgment is at hand." Because he wore black, the growling voice was like an ominous, disembodied spirit.

  Lovechio said, in a small voice, "Something's wrong here. What's this about?" He would be packing a gun, given the circumstances, yet he sounded afraid. Then, noting something beyond the windshield, he added, "Who the hell's this, driving down from the site? I told Tupper and Firth to clear the place out."

  It had to be now or never!

  Mike braced his upper torso against the side of the van for leverage, not the easiest thing to do while handcuffed. Locking his ankles together, he kicked up and out with all of his strength at the man behind the steering wheel.