“What’s wrong with you, dude?” Marshall asked. “It’s just a house.”
But after a few more minutes of knocking, Marshall consented to his roommate’s plea to leave with a, “0 for 2.” And they approached the third house.
The third house was a bit different. It was two stories, but in similar shape as the first two. Dirty drapes prevented any chance of being able to see in and a large rusted iron fence guarded the perimeter of the house.
Marshall spotted an ancient looking intercom on the front of the wrought iron fence and pushed the button. “Hello?”
There was nothing but silence on the other end. George let out another growl as he stared at the house. Marshall was already on edge just from the overall weird feeling he was getting from visiting these houses and George wasn’t helping. The intercom sprang to life as an elderly man’s voice shattered the silence. “Go away—you and your dog both.”
Marshall was puzzled for a split second as he wondered how the man on the opposite end of the intercom knew about George. Marshall jerked his head up and caught the faintest glimpse of an old man before the curtains on the second floor swung closed.
“Please, I’m not here to harass you,” Marshall said, holding down the button. “I just need to ask a few questions.”
But like the other two houses, there was no going back once the resident had decided not to talk. Marshall ground his teeth in frustration.
Why were these people so shut off? What were they so scared of?
On the way back to his car, Marshall headed to the final house. He only had one chance left. Whatever it took, he had to get information from this last residence. He couldn’t take no for an answer. If he did, he might never find out what really happened to Barbara.
Marshall and George walked past the other two houses toward the single house that stood alone. As they got closer, Marshall was surprised to see that this house was in nowhere near the poor condition of the other three. It would be a far stretch of the imagination to call this house nice, but the paint was still clinging on the walls and the grass was trimmed.
Marshall opened the short chain-link fence for himself and George and started up the paved walkway.
“Can I help you?”
Marshall practically jumped out of his skin and George’s head snapped up, making his floppy ears bounce. The one story house had a deep-set porch, and in one corner sat the figure of an elderly man rocking gently in his chair.
“Ummm… yes, actually. I was just wondering if I might be able to ask you a few questions.”
“These questions wouldn’t be about the young girl that was found dead in the road yesterday morning, would it?”
Marshall felt a surge of hope in his chest. Maybe he would get some answers after all. “Yes, do you know anything about what happened to her?”
The old man was silent, still rocking gently back and forth.
Marshall took this silence as an opportunity to travel a few more steps with George until he stood opposite the stranger. The stranger’s face looked as tough as leather. He was a hard man—there was no doubt about that. His short dark gray and white hair held testament to his knowledge and despite his age, there was still a look of strength in his eyes. “You’re better off leaving the subject alone, young man.”
“Why is that?”
“Because some questions you don’t want to know the answer to. Because some answers provoke a response. And some responses provoke action.”
George pulled against the leash, panting heavily. He struggled to reach the old man. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“George.”
The old man let go of a small smile as he looked at the dog. “May I pet him? It’s been a long time since I owned my own dog.”
“Sure.” Marshall let go of George’s leash and the beagle immediately trotted over to the man and put two front paws on his knees.
The man scratched George behind his ears and the two looked like old friends reunited, George with his tongue lolling out and the old man taken back to a happier time with his own dogs.
“What if I wanted to respond? I mean, if I needed the answer to take action.”
The old man continued to pet George and didn’t even look at Marshall. “Oh? And what type of action would you take if you got your answers?”
Marshall’s brain was starting to hurt with all the vague references. “Listen, I’m a reporter, and I just want to know if you know anything about the young girl’s death.”
“You’re a good kid. I can tell that by how well mannered you are and how well you take care of this little guy. Trust me. Stop asking questions. This is beyond any of us.”
There was no doubt in Marshall’s mind that the man knew something. He fought back frustration as he phrased his next question carefully. “What is it that everyone is so afraid of around here? The other residents wouldn’t even talk to me. And you’re afraid to answer my questions.”
The old man snorted and gave George one final pet before he crossed his arms and looked deep into Marshall’s eyes. “Don’t mistake self-preservation for fear. Now get off my property.”
All three of them jumped as the door to the house opened and a female voice interrupted the conversation. “Grandpa. That’s not very nice.”
Marshall was shocked to see a woman about his own age step onto the porch. Her long black hair was pulled back from her strong face and she wore fitted jeans and a button-up red and white-checkered shirt.
She smiled at Marshall and extended her hand. “I’m sorry about my grandfather, he doesn’t like strangers much. I’m Samantha.”
Marshall accepted the offered hand and smiled. “I’m Marshall.”
The two stood there smiling and shaking hands until there was a loud snort from the old man that made them break their grip. “Actually, Sam, Marshall here was lost and I had just given him directions. He was leaving now.”
Marshall looked at the old man, who was giving him a threatening stare. “Actually,” Marshall began, “that’s not true at all I had some questions I wanted to ask before I left. And I never got your name,” Marshall said this last part as he strode over and extended his hand.
The old man squinted at Marshall but accepted his hand and squeezed a little too hard. “I’m the old man that lives here and is asking you kindly to leave.”
Marshall was shocked at the man’s strength as he broke the grip and had to make a conscious effort not to show any sign of discomfort.
“Were you here asking about that young girl?” Samantha asked. She bent down and ruffled George’s ears.
“Yes, I was. Have you noticed anything strange around here the last few days? Maybe saw something around the time she died?”
The old man sat quiet as Samantha frowned and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I only come out to visit my grandpa once a week to make sure he’s okay.”
“I’m sitting right here, you know. Talking about me like I’m some kind of cripple.”
Samantha smiled at her grandfather as she stood up and walked over to him. She put a slender hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I know you’re okay. I’m not coming around checking on your safety. I’m making sure you’re not running off people from your house with a pitchfork.”
A small smile played across his lips as he gave his granddaughter an approving nod. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Marshall. I hope they catch whoever is responsible for that poor girl’s death.”
Marshall had to let out a sigh as he was forced to face another dead end. “Me too. Thank you for your help.”
“Of course,” Samantha said. “I’ll walk you to the gate.”
Marshall nodded a goodbye in the old man’s direction.
“Marshall. George.” The old man nodded back.
Chapter 7
Halfway down the paved path that ran from the porch to the front gate, Samantha asked, “Do you think that something happened to the girl? I mean, something other than an accident?”
Marsh
all looked at her worried face. “I honestly wasn’t sure until today. The way people seem scared and avoided the question, avoided even talking to me. It really makes me wonder.”
The trio had reached the gate and Samantha held Marshall’s gaze. “I’m sorry about my grandfather. He means well, really he does. He’s just had a rough life. I’m sorry neither of us could be of more help.”
Marshall knew she was being sincere. The way she looked straight into his eyes and the manner in which her voice softened told Marshall as much. “It’s okay. Thank you, anyway.”
Samantha nodded and looked past Marshall to where his car was parked on the side of the road. “Is that your car?”
Marshall followed her gaze and nodded. “Yep. That’s the tank.”
“Very cool. What is it, a ‘66, ‘67?”
Marshall looked back at her with newfound respect. “Um, yeah. It’s a ‘66. You know cars?”
Samantha let a wry smile touch her lips. “I guess you could say that. Mind if I take a look at her?”
“Sure.”
The entire time the two were talking at the fence, Marshall could feel Samantha’s grandfather’s eyes on them like lasers. As they opened the gate and walked from the lawn to Marshall’s car together, he imagined holes being bored right through him.
“Have you done any work on her?” Samantha asked at they reached the car.
“No, just a few maintenance issues, like the alternator needing to be replaced and new tires when I first bought him.”
“Her.”
“What?”
“You said ‘him’ when you referred to your car. It’s definitely a ‘her.’”
Marshall couldn’t help but laugh. “And how do you know that?”
“Cause only a woman would have this much patience. How long has your car been in this shape? I mean, you should really take better care of your vehicle.”
Marshall had to figure out how to feel about Samantha’s last comment. It was a mixture of offense and agreement that first came to mind. But after looking at his car again, he really couldn’t argue. Pockets of rust covered his coupe from bumper to trunk, and the fact that his antenna was bent just added validity to her statement.
“How do you know so much about cars?”
Samantha turned and flashed her pearl white teeth. “Oh, I probably should have led with this. I have a garage in town where I work on classic cars and motorcycles.”
Marshall was taken aback. Samantha was the kind of woman that when someone first met her, the first two options for guessing her occupation would be actress or model. Somewhere around guess one hundred, might be thrown out the random speculation of “mechanic”.
“Yeahhhhh…” she said with a frown. “I get that a lot when I tell guys what I do.”
“Oh no,” Marshall shook his head. “I mean, that’s not what I was thinking. That’s awesome, actually. I just—” Marshall had put his foot in his mouth and couldn’t find the words to get it out. “I mean, George has mixed feelings when it comes to girls working on his cars, but I think its fine.”
Samantha laughed as she knelt down again and rubbed George’s ears. “Does he always throw you under the bus like that?”
George gave her a puppy dog look as his eyes rolled. He leaned into her hand. “Well, listen,” Samantha said, standing up. “If you ever do decide to get your car looked at, you should bring it down to my shop.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a card.
Marshall accepted it and gave her his own. “And if you or your grandpa do remember anything, here’s mine.”
Samantha took Marshall’s card and bit her lip in a way that made Marshall wonder if she was still thinking about cars. “Is that the only reason I should call you?”
Marshall was still regaining his footing after saving himself from the last foot in mouth situation. “Or I mean if you want to hear more about how George feels about female mechanics.”
Samantha laughed. “Okay. You two drive safe, and there’s an open invitation to visit my garage.”
“Thank you.”
The two waved good-bye and Marshall unlocked the car and let George inside.
Really smooth, dude. Blaming everything on your dog like he’s your wingman? Really? She must think you’re an idiot.
Marshall stuffed Samantha’s business card in his pocket and pulled a U-turn as he headed back into town. He couldn’t help but notice Samantha’s slim figure walking back toward the porch as he felt the old man’s eyes on him.
George had been sniffing the car like it was a new environment to him ever since they had entered. He bounded onto the back seat and Marshall could hear paper rustling. Before he had a chance to look back, George was sitting behind him with a newspaper in his mouth.
Marshall furrowed his eyebrows. He hadn’t left any newspapers in the car. Pulling over, he took the newspaper from between George’s jaws. His fingers trembled and his heartbeat quickened as he realized what it was. The newspaper was the current morning edition of the Hermes. It was turned to page two, where Barbara Summers’ picture stood out against the thin paper. In red marker that looked like blood were scrawled the words, Leave It Alone.
Chapter 8
Marshall threw the paper down like it was infected and turned all the way around in his seat, searching the entire interior of the car. Someone had broken in while he was talking to the canyon’s residents. Who knew what else they’d done?
The interior of his vehicle was bare. Marshall turned off the engine and sat in his car trying to calm himself. He felt violated. After a few minutes he regained his composure and he let his hands handle the newspaper once again. George sat quietly sniffing the air, sensing something was wrong, but waiting for his roommate to take the lead.
Marshall looked at George and just shook his head. “This is getting weirder and weirder. If you want out now, I won’t hold it against you. Really, I mean who knows what else is going to happen. This can get dangerous. I won’t think any less of you if you decide to leave.”
George sat panting with his head cocked to the side. “Okay, good. I was hoping you would stay.” Marshall smiled more at himself talking to his dog than anything else. But his self-imposed distraction was working. He felt better already. Carefully he looked through the newspaper, starting on the front page and working his way through the entire edition. There was nothing else there. No other messages, nothing circled or highlighted, only the warning scribbled in red ink.
Marshall was no expert on penmanship, but if he had to guess, the person either wrote it in a hurry or wasn’t a great writer to begin with. The words were sloppy and some letters were bigger than the others. Besides that, there was nothing else to work with. “Great, so I’m looking for a male/female between the ages of ten and ninety who has bad handwriting.”
Marshall took a deep breath, tossed the newspaper in the back seat, started his car, and headed back to town. He needed to drop George off at his apartment and then go to work and do what he did best. He needed to dig deep into Wakan Canyon’s history and research what had happened there to make so many people afraid.
It was noon by the time Marshall had dropped off George at the apartment and he hit a drive-thru restaurant on his way to the office. It was a toss up between a hamburger and Mexican, but Marshall ended up choosing a burrito—it was easier to eat while driving. He wondered, not for the first time, how bad his health was if he was on a first name basis with the employees of the Mexican restaurant.
“Oh well,” he mumbled in between mouthfuls of spicy goodness. “Might as well take advantage of this metabolism while I have it.”
Carrying his lunch remains and brown leather satchel with him, he arrived at the Hermes and took the elevator to the top floor.
Ann was standing right in front of him as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out. “Well, hello, stranger. Busy at work, I see. Did you have a productive morning out in the field? I’ve been looking forward to the piece you’re preparing on the his
tory of the county.”
“Thanks. Yeah, it was—it was interesting.”
“Oh, really? How so?”
Marshall mentally kicked himself for leaving such an open-ended statement on the table, especially with someone like Ann. “Oh, you know, a lot of interesting characters out there.”
This seemed to appease Ann as she nodded and smiled in agreement.
Marshall seized the moment. “Okay, then. Well, I’m back to work. Have a great day.”
“You too. Don’t work too hard.”
Marshall let out a sigh of relief as he entered his office, glad to be free of any more prying questions. It wasn’t uncommon for reporters to work from home or even be out all day in the field researching or conducting interviews, but his story was in its infancy, and he should be at his desk doing research. If anyone looked too closely, it would be clear that he was out running his own errands.
He tossed the crumpled up Mexican take out bag into the wastebasket like a true fast food pro and plopped down at his desk. It was time to find out the truth about Wakan Canyon, and if those who lived there were unable to cooperate, then he had his own means of finding the truth.
Marshall cracked his knuckles and hit the keyboard. His fingers flew over the keys like a musician composing a masterpiece. Marshall was no stranger to finding answers. Throughout the years as a reporter, he had always been willing to dig deeper until he found the truth. This was no exception.
Marshall visited all the normal county historical sites, the recorder’s office, and the history sites devoted to the state of California. They all said the same generic things. They gave dates when the county was founded, noted how much the county had progressed in industry, and there were more population statistics than Marshall thought anyone would ever need. But Marshall wanted more. After hours of reading the same thing, he decided to focus his search and put in the name Wakan Canyon in a series of search engines. He was shocked at what he found.
Bad Land Page 4