Bad Land

by Jonathan Yanez

  Wakan Canyon was the site of more gruesome occurrences than he cared to read. The word “wakan” itself meant “altar” in the local Native American dialect. It was like an urban legend fanatic’s dream. There were reports of everything from alien sightings to organized crime. One site even boasted a picture of a large man in a gorilla suit saying that they had finally found the elusive Bigfoot.

  Like any good reporter, Marshall was able to sift through the hype and narrow in on the consistent reports. He found those examples that were credible by cross-referencing the facts with actual documented reports.

  This quickly eliminated things like Bigfoot and UFOs. The thing everyone seemed to agree on, however, was that the canyon was the scene of violence and bloodshed. Long before the founding fathers of the county had met and started a colony, the site was the battleground of warring Native American tribes.

  No tribe lived in the area but it was the location where many battles were fought. Anytime a warrior or group of warriors challenged another tribe, Wakan Canyon was the place they met to settle their differences in blood.

  Marshall’s eyes widened as black and white sketched pictures filled his computer screen. They were pictures of war and violence. American Indians held tomahawks, knives, and bows as they met one another, locked in a brutal struggle for life.

  Marshall continued to sift through information. Finally, he stumbled across an article that mentioned both founding families by name.

  On February 8th, 1850, two wealthy families settled in the area and decided to build a community. Amongst their numerous duties, while establishing a city, one family took to protecting the settlement. The other family focused on governing the city as well as establishing a newspaper. Marshall’s eyes widened and he struggled to keep his composure as he read the names of the two families.

  Chapter 9

  Scott Lloyd and Daniel Whitmer were the heads of the founding families and credited with laying the groundwork in the early days of the county. Marshall had to lean back in his chair and make a decision if he believed in fate or chance. Could Lieutenant Tom Lloyd be related to the family who founded the county? And what about his own boss? What about Diane Whitmer, the woman he’d worked for the past six years? Could she also be related to the founding families?

  This is crazy. It has to be a coincidence. The odds alone have to be a million to one that two people I know are relatives of the founding families of the county.

  The idea of simply asking Diane or Lieutenant Lloyd if they were members of the same family crossed his mind. But what if they were? That didn’t mean anything. Marshall decided to keep researching and reading before he made any hasty decisions or phone calls.

  The two families had grown together and created an oasis in the still early and dangerous West. People flocked to the city looking for opportunity, safety, and a new start. According to the article, everything had gone smoothly, both families working together to create a better existence until 1857, when there was a dispute among the families. The article wasn’t specific about what had caused the rift between the two, but soon the argument turned to bloodshed. The Lloyd family took the lead in city affairs and the Whitmers fell out of historical mention.

  Marshall scratched at his thick brown hair in frustration. There were still so many missing pieces. What had caused the families to turn against each other? What had the Lloyd family done to gain the edge and take control of the town?

  Marshall spent the rest of the afternoon and evening, searching for any other mention of the two families and what had happened. There was nothing. Besides a few sites mentioning the names of the families, there was no new information as to what had caused the families to feud.

  It was becoming increasingly apparent that if Marshall was going to get answers, he was not going to find them staring at a computer screen. He had to get someone to talk. The old man and his daughter were the only ones in the area he had gotten any response from, and if he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind seeing Samantha again. Other than that, there was Lieutenant Lloyd, and his own boss, Diane Whitmer, he could approach. He could at least ask them for his own peace of mind if they were related to the founding families.

  Marshall gathered his things and then exited his office. The lights were still on in the large, open room that housed the cubicles, but everyone was already gone. Marshall reminded himself to keep better track of time as he looked out the window. He was greeted by the moon and stars.

  A door shut down the hall and his head jerked in that direction.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  There was no answer. Marshall was forced to remember the note scrawled on the newspaper he had found in the back of his car. It had been written in thick red ink, no doubt meant to resemble blood. Marshall could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He faced the direction of the sound and slowly walked backward toward the elevators. He was afraid the second he turned something would move behind him.

  If whoever had left the newspaper in the back of his car knew where he worked, then they could have come for him.

  He tried to reason with himself as he called out in the direction of the noise again. “Hello?” Still there was no response.

  It wasn’t unheard of for other reporters to stay late, but they usually responded when you shouted at them. Marshall dared not turn away from the noise, even for a second. That’s when a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Marshall wheeled around in panic. He found himself looking into the stoic eyes of his employer, Diane Whitmer.

  She let go of his shoulder as she raised her eyebrows at the brown leather satchel Marshall had lifted above his head, like a club, ready to strike.

  “I hope you’re not always this jumpy. Mind lowering your weapon?”

  Marshall let a huge breath escape as he looked at his own raised arm, shocked that violence would be his first response to this situation.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought I heard a noise down the hall and—yeah, it’s silly.”

  Diane cocked her head. “No, there’s no one else here but me. I was just about to leave. How’s the new piece coming?”

  The way she asked him. The look she gave him as if she was searching for the truth made Marshall think she was hinting at something more than just wanting to know about the article.

  “It’s great,” he said as he readjusted the satchel on his shoulder. “I’m finding out things about the county I would have never guessed.”

  Diane looked at him, not even blinking. “Oh really? Like what?”

  Marshall bit his lip and searched for the right words. He had never been good at verbal sparring. It was a trait he admired in others. “The founding dates, what the area had been used for before the city was founded…”

  Diane nodded. Marshall was sure she saw right though his façade. “Well, don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions. You know I’ve lived in this area for a very, very long time now.”

  There was an awkward silence as Marshall bit his tongue. He didn’t trust himself to say a word. Instead he smiled and nodded.

  “Shall we share an elevator?”

  “Sure,” Marshall agreed.

  Soon the elevator chime dinged and the metal doors slid open. Employer and employee entered the small, box like container, the doors closed, and they descended to the bottom floor.

  Marshall turned his head as he heard Diane stifle a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, but you realize that you almost tried to hit me with your bag a few minutes ago, right?”

  Marshall did a half grin, half grimace. “Oh yeah, I’m so sorry again. I—”

  “Marshall, please—it was a mistake and nothing happened. I’m just surprised that in the event of danger, attack is your first instinct. I wouldn’t have thought that until now. You strike me as more of the flight instead of fight type.”

  Marshall’s dark eyebrows scrunched as he tried to figure out if he was being given a compliment or taking a jab at his manhood. At the same time, he was wond
ering if this was the longest conversation he’d had with his boss that was not related to work. The elevator doors opened on the lobby floor and Diane said goodbye.

  “Have a restful night and be careful out there. You never know what may happen.”

  Diane walked out, leaving Marshall more confused than ever. He had to right his head, which was cocked to the side as the doors began to close with him still inside. He shot out a hand to keep from riding the elevator up again.

  The walk to the car was plagued with a tag team of worry. Would he find another note threatening him in his car? And what was Diane hiding, if she was hiding anything, about her family’s past?

  Marshall was relieved to find his car just like he had left it, with no extra additions. He made sure to check the backseat before he got in and even inspected the trunk, just in case. When he got home, George was lounging about the house without a care in the world. Apparently there would be no dark shadows lurking the corners of his patio tonight. Marshall let out a deep breath as he poured himself some cereal for dinner.

  He was on edge more than he’d thought. With all the new discoveries piling up, he needed answers. Real answers, not the potential information he found online. He needed to visit Samantha’s grandfather again, and possibly even Samantha. Her strongly feminine figure and invitation to visit came to the forefront of his mind.

  All this was technically still work, he reasoned. He was researching the county’s past and Samantha and her grandfather were perfect people to interview. He had to keep his priorities straight. He was doing all of this to find out what had really happened to Barbara Summers. But what if everything was tied together somehow? What if Barbara had been a casualty in some kind of feud that had started with the American Indians centuries ago and was still going on today?

  As Marshall went through the motions of feeding his roommate and getting ready for bed, he let his mind wander to her and what had happened. It was a memory that was so far repressed he didn’t even have to try to avoid it. Ninety percent of the time, he just did.

  But things with Barbara had hit too close to home for him not to bring back memories of the past. It was still early to go to bed, but Marshall was exhausted and he knew he had another long day tomorrow, so he let himself sink into the soft mattress. Eyes closed, he was plagued by the memories of the sister he once had.

  Chapter 10

  “HA! You’re going to wear that?”

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

  “Well, Mr. I’m-only-seventeen-and-now-I’m-working-as-an-intern-at-the-Hermes, you look like a dork.”

  Marshall looked down at his khaki pants and polo shirt. “Isn’t this how I’m supposed to dress? I look professional, right?”

  “You look like you’re trying to be something you’re not. Just wear your regular clothes. You look fine in those.”

  Marshall debated how much stock he should put in his little sister’s opinion. “You do own a ton of clothes.”

  “Trust me, big brother. I’m fifteen and in the prime of knowing what’s in and what’s out. Believe me, you are very, very out right now. Go upstairs and change.”

  Marshall ran up the stairs looking at his watch, gauging how much time he could spare before he was due to be at the Hermes. He still had a few minutes. He took the stairs two at a time and threw open his closet door once he reached his room. He stared at the closet’s contents and the clothes ranging from jackets to tank tops. He reached out for a plain white short sleeve when he heard his sister’s voice right behind him.

  “No, no—you’re not an extra in Grease, wear that plaid one. Yeah, the long sleeve button up one, but roll the sleeves up.”

  Marshall grabbed the shirt and turned around. “This one?”

  “Yep.” His sister was sprawled on his bed. “Wear that with jeans and your regular shoes.” She paused for a minute and scrunched her nose. “Ewwww, what is that? Is that—is that your sheets? It smells like beer. Have you been drinking again?”

  Marshall rolled his eyes. “Listen, Mom, I had a beer last night with the guys. I didn’t get drunk—”

  “Everyone was doing it.” His sister finished the sentence. “Listen, far be it for your little sister to give you advice on your social life, but you don’t have to drink to fit in. Especially since you know alcoholism runs in the family.”

  Marshall knew exactly what she was talking about. Both their parents were sober and had been nothing but great examples, but both their mother and father had come from families with heavy drinkers. When they got together for family functions or holidays, there was always alcohol involved and you could count on alcohol-induced arguments and drama to ensue.

  So far, Marshall had seen everything through his own body. Now he was reminded that this was a dream, as his viewpoint was ripped from his sister and redirected to years before when the two were small children.

  “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

  “Her head fell off.” His sister looked at him with big teary eyes, one chubby hand holding her favorite doll’s head, the other holding the body. “Marsh, it broke and now I can’t fix it.” A fat tear rolled down her plump cheek and onto her pink and white dress.

  “Here, I can.” Marshall took the doll from his little sister and examined both the head and the body.

  “Can—can you fix my Susie doll?”

  Marshall squinted as his six-year-old brain sought an answer. “I think I can. Wait here.”

  Marshall was back in a few minutes proudly presenting the Susie doll to his baby sister. Marshall had found the duct tape in the kitchen drawer and carefully wrapped a strand around both the neck and body, connecting the head.

  His sister’s eyes lit up as she wiped the tears from her eyes and clutched her doll close. Despite the poor duct tape job, his sister couldn’t be happier. “Oh, Marsh! You’re a hero!”

  Whatever decided what scenes he saw in his dream, whether it was his psyche or something else, now pulled him from this happy memory and dropped him in the hospital. His father and mother were talking to the doctor as Marshall stared numbly through the thick hospital window out to the rainy afternoon sky. It was perfect weather for a day like this. He could hear them talking amongst his mother’s light sobs and his father’s quivering voice.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, but she’s gone.”

  “How—how did it happen?” both of his parents asked. Their voices were murky with grief and pain.

  “She was involved in a hit and run. The police are out looking for the driver even as we speak.”

  Marshall felt that ball of pain in his chest. That knot that worked its way up his throat and choked him to tears. No sound came out, just tears. They rolled down his cheeks like they would never stop. He didn’t care. He felt no shame in crying for the sister who had been his best friend, who he had loved for fifteen years.

  His viewpoint shifted again and this time he was looking down on himself over the next few weeks. He was a mess. Crying every day, even after the funeral. He just wanted it to be over. He was tired of crying, nothing was going to bring her back. He had shed his tears and felt the grief. It was the worst grief he had ever experienced and he had a feeling it would be the worst grief he would ever have to go through.

  It was three months before he made the decision to stop being sad. He made a conscious effort to stop thinking about his sister. He knew she wouldn’t want him to live as a shadow of who he once was. It was hard at first. He had to fight and ignore every memory of her. With the help of beer and liquor, the pain lessened. Eventually it became easier. He told himself this is what she would want. Soon he got to the point where he forgot about her all together.

  He knew he was still dreaming as he tried to remember what she looked like. Did she have short hair? Was it long? She had dark eyes for sure—didn’t she? Panic seized him as he struggled to remember what his sister looked like. Every time he brought up an image, it was blank. Whenever he thought he had it, it escaped him like mist th
rough a grasping hand.

  He had to remember her. He had to. Then he saw a figure approaching him through the darkness. Through the black void the female figure came closer. She stumbled toward him as if she was drunk. Her wild hair fell down her featureless face. A lump of flesh was all that stood in the place of eyes, nose, and a mouth. The figure with the doughy face reached out for him with grasping hands pleading to be seen.

  Marshall sat bolt upright in bed. His chest heaved in and out as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was just a nightmare. Calm down. You remember what she looked like. You can never forget. No matter how hard you try, you will always remember her.

  Marshall looked over at his clock. It was still early, but he decided to get up anyway. Apparently a restful night’s sleep wasn’t in the stars. Today he needed answers and he had a feeling it would take a full day to get them. Shower, another bowl of sugary cereal for breakfast, and a mental note that he needed to go grocery shopping took all of thirty minutes. He took his roommate outside for a short walk that seemed like it was more sniffing and peeing than actual walking, and he was ready to go.

  Marshall planned on visiting Samantha’s grandfather first. The old man knew more, and Marshall thought that with the right push, he could get the geezer to spill the beans. If that failed, he could always go to Samantha, and even his boss.

  Diane’s cryptic behavior and her choice of words made it all but certain she knew more than she let on. What about Lieutenant Lloyd? If he was a relative of the founding family, it was possible he might know something as well. He might even know something more about Barbara. Thinking about her brought back the dream he had all but forgotten.

  The ways that his sister and Barbara had died were so similar. But his sister’s body hadn’t been drained of blood and it was found nowhere near the canyon. It was a stupid coincidence and not worth thinking about. Instead, he gunned the engine and sped through the traffic toward the old man’s house and the answers he needed.