Noelle resumed the questioning. “What do you remember about the three guys? Were they people you know?”
“Nope, never seen ’em before in my life,” the bartender responded. “Looked like it must have been the one guy’s bachelor party or something. It seemed like the other two were kinda taking care of him—feeding him drinks, clapping his back—but they didn’t have much to drink themselves. Bad tippers, too.”
“What made you think it was a bachelor party?” Jake interjected.
The man seemed annoyed that Jake was getting involved again. He huffed quietly. “They didn’t say it was a bachelor party, no, but I didn’t ask. I just got that idea because it seemed like they were celebrating something for the guy in the middle.”
“The guy who was drinking more than the others?”
“Yeah, exactly. Maybe it wasn’t a bachelor party, maybe my man just broke up with his girl, how should I know? Could’ve been a pity party.”
Jake got up and headed for the bathroom without saying anything to Noelle or the bartender. As he rounded the corner of the bar he looked back to see if the bartender was watching him. He was still focused on Noelle. Jake reached behind the bar to the keypad of the cash register and grabbed the pen that was resting there. Then he took a napkin from the disorderly stack on the bar. Jake returned shortly and smiled at the bartender, who didn’t return the smile. In his absence, Noelle and the man had started making small talk. Jake set his hand on Noelle’s thigh and said, “Honey, I’ve got to go to the car and make a phone call. Meet me there?” Jake finished his virgin beverage.
“Of course,” Noelle replied smoothly, and Jake left the bar.
The bartender stepped away for a moment to tend to another patron. Noelle looked down at her thigh, which was shielded from the bartender’s view by the overlapping edge of the bar’s counter. Scrawled on the napkin were the words “Get cc info. Meet at car.”
Cc info? Noelle thought for a moment. Jake must have meant credit card information, but how the hell was she supposed to procure the credit card information for the men at the bachelor party, or whatever it was that caused them to celebrate that night? There was no way that the bartender would give up this information. She thought again.
The bartender was chatting with another customer. When he came to see if Noelle wanted another drink, she had figured out a solution, though she was doubtful it would work.
“The reason we asked about those men is that . . . well.” Noelle feigned embarrassment.
“Well, go on,” the man urged her, interested.
Noelle put on her best spoiled-housewife facade.
“My dear husband is in sales. Has been forever. His father was in sales and his father before him. They have been very successful. Selling extremely rare items. Unfortunately, my husband’s little brother was never interested in the family business. He was always sort of—how shall I say—a fuckup, you know, like the black sheep?”
Where am I getting this stuff?
“He wanted to start his own business. Anyway, my husband invited him up to our place to stay and figure things out or whatever. His brother shows up, but with two friends, two guys we don’t know. They don’t even make it one night before they take off with all of my husband’s inventory. The thing is, this stuff is valuable, old stuff, really old stuff, and it’s worth a fortune. Our entire savings.”
The bartender was listening intently. Noelle had him hooked.
“The problem is, it’s not all on the books. Do you know what I mean? We can’t try to recover our stuff by normal means. We can’t just call the cops.” Noelle looked directly at him.
“So what do you want from me?” the bartender asked. She brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes and intensified her eye contact, whispering:
“If you can, I need the names of the guys that were here. Did they happen to leave a credit card receipt, anything like that?” Noelle was cringing on the inside. This was the moment of truth.
“I can check,” the man responded, as if she hadn’t asked for much. As Noelle breathed a sigh of relief, the bartender pointed at her hand. “Where’s your ring?”
“If you must know, we haven’t been getting along so well recently.” She winked at the man. “It’s mainly a financial relationship these days.” The bartender looked at her and nodded.
The wink and the possibility that Noelle might in fact be single had sealed the deal. He went to the cash register, grabbed a stack of receipts from under the cash drawer, and went into the back. Noelle could only hope that the men hadn’t paid in cash. The fact that they had apparently heartily indulged made it more likely that a credit card was used.
“Your lucky day,” the bartender said as he strode toward Noelle, now on her side of the bar. She crumpled up Jake’s note in her fist. “I’ve got a name on the receipt.”
“Wow, I can’t thank you enough.” Noelle took the receipt from the man and looked at the name. C. Stanford. It didn’t ring a bell, but it was something to go on.
“That’s perfect. Thanks so much! I’ll see you around.” She winked again and left the bar.
13
CAMP BODHI. THAT EVENING.
The Shaman was furious. He had just been asked—ordered, really—to abandon his followers and stay under the radar until the original task was completed. Even the Shaman had a boss.
You have to lay low at this point, his boss had told him. When they were done the Shaman would have to disappear anyway, but with his pockets fuller and his wicked thirst finally quenched by the crisp chill of due revenge.
He had agreed to do what was asked of him during their little meeting but never intended to actually follow through.
Fuck him! Who is he to tell me what to do?
He was enjoying his ploy too much to abandon it now. There was intense satisfaction in maintaining power over his contingent. To them, he was like a god. Why throw it all away now?
The Shaman’s cell phone rang. “Yes.” His tone was cold as he spoke into the mobile phone. Every phone was purchased with stolen credit card numbers and prepaid, except for one. That mobile phone was purchased on an account under the name of a real individual—Jake Trent of Jackson, Wyoming. A name the Shaman thought about often. This was the phone the Shaman primarily used.
“I hit someone . . . um, I hit someone with my car, er, the car, your car.” A nervous voice threw the stream of words into the phone and they poured out of the small speaker, which added its own edge to the already annoying whine.
“Okay,” the Shaman responded, being cruelly cool at first. “I have no idea who the hell I am talking to.” His intensity escalated. “Let’s start over and please stop shrieking like a woman.” Only a handful of his followers knew the number to this phone and so the Shaman did in fact have an idea who it was. One of his moronic followers had screwed something up already.
“I hit someone with the car on my way to the stakeout point. I . . . I think I probably, er, definitely killed him. This guy, he had just killed an elk, hit it with his car. I saw red, thought he deserved the same. This is Sam, sir.”
“Did anyone see you?” The Shaman gripped the phone tighter with anger.
“I don’t know—I don’t think so, there was a truck nearby but I couldn’t tell whether or not he saw it—the collision, I mean. He didn’t stop, I don’t think.”
The Shaman weighed the consequences before speaking. “And that’s all?” The Shaman was calm now. This incident might not be such a bad thing after all, as long as nobody had seen Sam. Hell, it might actually work out better if someone did see the car.
“Um, yes . . . sir. That’s all.” To the Shaman, the kid seemed confused. His voice was still strained and trembling.
“Okay. What do you want from me? Why did you call?”
“I thought you should know, sir. And also . . .” His voice trailed off. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid,” he said meekly.
The Shaman sighed and sarcastically thanked Sam for calling. If he
were actually depending on Sam’s commitment to the cause, he would be concerned. But Sam was just a pawn, a cover. The Shaman laughed at what Sam perceived as a horrible deed.
What does this kid know about true evil? About darkness—a completely consuming nightmare rolling alongside reality in your own head? Pussy! Kid does have principles, though. Just hit a guy with a car to save a totally fucked world!
The Shaman laughed harder now. These kids were impressive in their own right—he could use more people like them in his own business.
The Shaman divided his followers into a two-part hierarchy: proselytes and votaries, and one could move up at Camp Bodhi only by completing a task deemed worthy by the Shaman himself. One of the proselytes had already sacrificed his life for the cause. He had longed to become a votary and the Shaman gave him his wish.
Too bad he died in vain. The Shaman laughed out loud again.
During his short life, the proselyte had had very little to live for. He was a sufferer of what laypersons called Ondine’s curse. The loss of the subconscious instinct to breathe.
Now that is some dark shit. We could’ve got along, he and I.
The disease necessitated that a mechanical nerve stimulator be surgically placed in the man’s neck and chest when he was an infant—the purpose of which was to stimulate breathing during sleep, when the man’s body would otherwise forget to breathe.
Alcohol, as it does to any system in the human body, impaired the man’s nervous system even further, rendering the stimulator inadequate.
This worked out well for the Shaman and his plan; the man had been easily killed—though not quite as easily as one might think—and the desperate, pitiful soul had died a meaningful death, in his own eyes at least. Even though the decision to die for the cause seemed easy for the man, the Shaman was impressed with the man’s self-sacrifice.
But the man’s willingness to die did much more to the Shaman than merely impress him. It enthralled him. The man’s last struggling breath had sent shivers down his spine. It was difficult for the Shaman to keep his composure in front of Ryder in that final moment. He did his best to appear cheerless, but inside his hardened shell he felt a desire to clench his fists in front of him, push his chest upward and outward, and howl like a wolf.
He’d felt an uncontrollable desire to release the burning pleasure that built within him while he killed the boy. He imagined it a violent, sadistic orgasm, but it never came to be. He didn’t want to compromise his hold over Ryder by coming off as insensitive, so he restrained himself.
While he walked back to the car, though, the energy from the act was still coursing through his veins. His muscles and ligaments were rigid. Adrenaline had taken over his entire existence. His mind and body wanted more. He looked at Ryder. The electricity shooting through him was affecting his eyesight; the man appeared to him like a thin, bloodred neon sign. Another sacrifice wouldn’t hurt the cause, he thought, somewhat logically. Fucking tear him apart! a voice not his own hissed from within.
Luckily, Ryder had spoken to him at that exact moment and interrupted the spiral of violence silently spinning in his head. On the ride back to the compound, the desire came and went, assaulting his mind like waves eroding a beach.
During the rushes of violence that poured over him every few minutes, he imagined the pleasure that would come from another killing. He knew that feeling well. It was the only thing he lived for now. It was the feeling of total and complete control over another human being.
Fuck money and status, who needs it when you can play God for free?
Ryder wasn’t the ideal victim, though, and the Shaman knew that. He was a committed follower of the cause, as evidenced by his actions that night. There would be other chances.
In the cabin now, the Shaman realized he was still gripping the phone. His knuckles were white and his teeth clenched again. He made a quick phone call.
“Send her in,” he said, and then put the phone back in its place.
Only a few seconds later a young woman slipped through the door. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting skirt, moccasins, and a scant buckskin bikini top that she had made herself. She didn’t smile at all.
The Shaman approached her. He could smell the earth and body odor on her. “You’re disgusting,” he said. The girl only looked down at the ground, trembling.
With the quickness of a cougar, he picked her up and dropped her onto the old table that served as his desk. He unzipped his fly and threw her skirt up over her head so he couldn’t see her face. She groaned as he forced his way inside her.
* * *
When Noelle emerged from the tavern, she found Chief Terrell standing next to Jake with a sour look on his face. Terrell attempted a pity smile, intending to convey a “nice to see you, sorry about this” message without saying a word. It didn’t seem genuine.
Jake wasn’t wearing handcuffs, which was good, but the chief was holding the keys to Jake’s vehicle in his hand. This was not good. Noelle looked over to Jake, who didn’t look afraid or concerned, just moderately annoyed. His head was held high, looking straight at Noelle. Noelle looked right back and nodded, hoping he would understand that she had procured the information they needed. She got the feeling that if anyone could understand such a vague message, he could.
“What’s the deal, Chief?” For the first time in front of Jake, Noelle showed a bit of attitude—a self-confident defiance almost palpable enough to make Jake cringe. He admired her courage and shared her sentiment but knew that a heavy-handed approach to cops was rarely effective.
The chief wasn’t smiling anymore. “You know I can’t tell you that. Now, I’m going to ask you to drive Mr. Trent’s car back into town if he allows it. I’d like to transport him in the car with me to the station.” Jake nodded to Noelle, indicating that she should do as the chief suggested.
Noelle knew why the chief wanted to take Jake in his cruiser, and it wasn’t because he considered Jake a flight risk. Instead, the officer wanted to keep the two separate so they could not corroborate their stories and come up with a bulletproof alibi. Classic police tactic.
Noelle watched as the cruiser flung gravel as it left the lot.
What the hell is going on?
* * *
Meanwhile, in the backseat of the police cruiser, Jake was frantically trying to assess what kind of trouble he was in now. When Terrell asked him why he was down in the canyon that afternoon, he was surprised.
How the hell did Terrell find out we were down here?
He said the first thing that came to his mind. “We were having a drink, Roger, at the tavern. Is that illegal?”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Jake. Dammit!” the chief shouted. The outburst surprised Jake, but the chief gathered himself quickly. He spoke more quietly now. “I’m trying to do my job and I’m dealing with quite a few difficult questions myself. I’d appreciate your cooperation.” The chief seemed exhausted.
“We were having a drink, Roger. What more can I tell you?” Jake repeated. He wasn’t trying to act defiantly but wasn’t quite ready to admit that he and Noelle were snooping around the investigation until he got some more information from the chief.
“How many cars do you own?”
What on earth is he getting at?
“Just this one . . .” Jake nodded back and to the side, indicating the vehicle Noelle was driving. He realized Terrell could not see the gesture. “The silver SUV, why?”
“Do you own a recent-model Chevrolet Impala? Are you sure you only own the SUV?” The chief got to the point. “Some of the construction guys saw an unfamiliar car down at Parrana’s Dairy Ranch. Said the driver was snooping around on private property. It’s registered under your name.”
“I wouldn’t forget buying a car, Roger. Boat, yes. Rickety old Winnebago, yes. No Chevy. When did this happen? We’ve been here for an hour or so,” Jake lied.
“The site is only twelve miles off, by my count.” The Chief ignored Jake’s question and asked a
nother of his own. “Are you aware of any other vehicles being registered in your name here in Teton County?”
“I’m not, Roger, and I find it very unlikely that a car could be registered in my name without me knowing. Wouldn’t you? What’s going on?” The irritation that Jake felt during his first apprehension was quickly returning with a multiplier effect.
“Okay, Jake. We’ll finish this when we get to the station.” The chief pulled his sunglasses down from his head and over his eyes and made an effort to appear more focused on driving back to the station. The conversation was over for now. There was excited police chatter coming over the radio, but Jake couldn’t hear well enough to understand the codes.
Without warning, Terrell muttered something else and crossed two lanes of traffic. He came to a skidding halt in a turnout perched high above the river. With the car still running, he went out the driver’s door and came quickly around to the back. Then he roughly pulled Jake from the cruiser.
“Hey, Roger! What the hell?” Jake yelled as he tried to regain his balance after being pushed against the rear quarter panel of the car.
Terrell’s stereotypical gold-framed aviators were still sitting on his nose. The look he gave Jake suggested that the questions about Terrell’s intentions were about to be answered.
* * *
Noelle continued past the police cruiser and parked Jake’s car on the shoulder just as soon as she was out of view.
What are they doing?
She walked quickly south, toward Jake and Terrell, then stopped on a small rise next to the road sparsely populated with sagebrush and crouched down to watch.
The sun peeked out for a moment. What Noelle saw next shocked her. After what looked like a heated exchange, the chief was letting Jake free. He led Jake around to the far side of the car, where the duo was obscured from the view of passersby. Then, Chief Terrell wound up and struck Jake violently in the face. The blow sent Jake to the ground in a heap.
Jesus Christ!
Death Canyon Page 14